


The Lion and the Mouse: Texting Subtext

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Case Fic, Character Development, Gen, MILD - Freeform, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-05 06:46:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 93,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is my **long** WIP. It's about 5 chapters short of complete... been painfully busy during the end of autumn and Advent season. It's likely to be finished between New Year's and Valentine's of 2014. It will be finished: I know what is coming, and just need time to sit down and write the chapters. There are currently 23 chapters.</p><p>It's Sherlolly, but very mild and slow-moving, and unlikely to ever get all that graphic. Think more in terms of love story rather than erotica.</p><p>Given the new season coming, it's about to be jossed to the ends of time, but I still like it and think it's a fun read.</p><p>One note: This is pretty close to all being first draft improvisation. Most of my stuff is: I write it, I check it for really glaring errors, and I post it, and sometimes the whole idea is to see if I can think on my feet and keep juggling the plot elements and character arcs. Evaluate it as high-speed improv. That's what it is.</p><p>So, summary: Sherlock returns from Exile. He and Molly find their relationship changing.</p><p>Originally posted to FF.net</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Texting Subtext

The Lion and the Mouse: Texting Subtext

Sherlock found himself working his way backward as he returned to his life – a peculiar sort of breech-birth, moving in reverse, undoing his death a contact at a time. First came Mycroft, the last to see him before he'd disappeared into the anonymity of his death. Eventually he'd renew contact with John, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. He intended to do so in that order, from the most intimate friend to the least. Before he did, though, there was one other he had to contact first. If Mycroft was his Charon, Molly had been his midwife, birthing him into death…and making sure he'd survived to tell about it.

"You're doing it again, Sherlock."

"Doing what, dear brother?" Sherlock's face gave away nothing but cool hauteur. Of course, Mycroft wasn't handing out clues to his inner workings either: all his face showed was his usual supercilious disapproval.

"You're  _caring_ again. You know better. Why not just send them all a nice note, tell them that now that you know they're all safe you're not going to risk putting them in danger again, and have done with it? I'm told they sell perfectly serviceable cards at the chemist's, with rhymes, roses, ribbons and other good things starting with R. Buy a box, jot a few words, and end it. You can hardly say your  _friendships_  weren't liabilities – to you or to them. Being alone keeps you safe."

Hearing the echo of his own voice from months past, Sherlock shot his brother an evil glance. "Friends kept me safe. And now, brother, I'm going to renew my acquaintance with them." He flashed a slight non-smile, then, with an inflection tuned to set Mycroft's teeth on edge, said a chipper, "Ta-ta." He sloped away down the center of the vast warehouse in which the two brothers had rendezvoused. His coat skirts swept wide, like black sails.

He knew if he looked back that Mycroft would be grimacing, irked but resigned. Not that he'd give his brother the satisfaction of looking back…and not that Mycroft would expect it. Even after the help Mycroft had been to Sherlock over the past months, even after the help Sherlock had been to him, neither of the two Holmes brothers was going to give the other so much as a hint of sentimental attachment. No, Mycroft would be standing, as upright as ever, dapper in his suit, his umbrella serving as a sturdy cane, one leg crossed in deceptively casual style, the perfect image of an ice-cold, cocksure, upper-class British sphinx, his face the face of impassive mystery.

He was damned good at that. Sherlock had never been able to pull it off for more than a few hours at a time, and had settled for something slightly less highbrow, but not one whit less arrogant. He was a slightly ruffled black-maned British lion—not quite so imperturbable and mythic as Mycroft's sphinx imitation, but good enough to be going on with.

He had Mycroft's limo drop him at his hotel. He paused for a moment on entering his room, senses on alert, hyper-vigilant after months on the hunt with enemies on all sides. He took his mobile phone from his breast pocket, slipped off his coat, tossed it on the bed, then prowled the space, checking the restroom and closets, checking the line of sight from nearby buildings. He closed the curtains. Only then did he slip off his shoes and socks and let himself coil into the modest armchair that came with the room.

"Oh for God's sake," Mycroft had chuffed on seeing Sherlock's room reservations, "I assure you, you can afford a decent hotel suite!"

Sherlock had not wanted what Mycroft considered a decent hotel suite. The shabby, slightly worn single room he'd booked suited him, as the rooms at 221B Baker Street had suited him.

He looked at the mobile phone cradled in the palms of his hands, considering for the hundredth time what he wanted to say to begin this.  _I'm not dead. Let's go out for dinner._  No, no. Maybe to John, who'd at least understand the reference—though probably not to John, either. John would think it was The Woman come back to annoy him. In any case, it wasn't the place to start with Molly, who knew he was alive, and who'd never gone out to dinner with him, or dared to hint at the possibility. Molly didn't have the brass of The Woman. Only recently had Sherlock even taken the time to consider that, instead, Molly was heart-of-gold.

In the end he settled for the same brief message he'd resolved on over and over during the months away, as he had imaged this return.

_I'm back. You still count. SH_

He hit send, and waited. He could so easily imagine her response – he could imagine a million responses. He  _had_ imagined them—not, he assured himself, for sentimental reasons. No. He was Sherlock, and he was just running through probabilities, evaluating various contingencies. In some she was happy, in others angry, in still others she was indifferent. He didn't have much time to review the variations, though. It was only a few seconds before the phone vibrated and her response came up.

_Are you all right? Do you need anything?_

_Nothing. I'm fine. Just happy to…_ He hesitated, backspaced, then typed again,  _Just glad to be home with friends._

_Have you told John yet?_

_No. He and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade are next. It's a different situation. They didn't know. You did._

It was a long wait till the next text arrived, as though she'd had to try several times before she had a version she was willing to send.

_Yes. Be gentle with them, Sherlock. Please? They hurt. A lot._

_I know. John's likely to punch me._

_They all are. Greg and Mrs. Hudson, too. You're going to be black and blue all over._

_There wasn't a better way,_ he typed, not sure why he wanted to know she understood. He knew he did, though.

_I know_ , she typed back.  _I still don't know what was going on since you left. I don't even really know everything that was going on then. But I trust you._

_You kept my secret._

_Yes. Always. I mean, I don't think I'm special. But so long as it wasn't torture or drugs. Of course I kept it._

Now he was the one who was slow to respond, fighting for the right thing to say. Drugs and torture were actually among the possible threats she'd faced, and he'd made sure she'd known that. She'd risked her life, her job, her reputation, and lied to people she loved and respected, for no more reason than because he'd asked her to. She'd saved his life…and he was almost certain she'd hurt as much as those who hadn't known. Maybe more. Knowledge could be a heavy burden—heavier when it had to be kept secret. Heaviest when you could see the damage done by silence. In the end he typed words that never came easily to him.

_Thank you, Molly Hooper._

_It's all right. No big thing. I promised I'd do what I could._

He snorted in amusement, seeing her in the room he'd built for her in his mind palace, imagining her self-deprecating attempt to undervalue her own actions.  _You're supposed to say, "You're welcome, Sherlock."_

_You're welcome, Sherlock. XD_

_Oh, good Lord. Please do not contaminate my phone with emoticons._

_XD :P :P :P XD XD XD_

_I shan't text with you if you behave like that._

_It won't give you cooties, Sherlock._

In his mind he could hear her laugh. Then he realized how rarely he'd heard her laugh in person…or had an exchange in which she seemed so at ease. Or in which he himself had felt so at ease. His fingers flashed over the tiny keys, thumbs moving quickly.

_It's common and trite, and debases the elegance of the form._  He stopped, looked at what he'd typed, then added,  _But…_ He frowned, trying to work out what he wanted to say.  _But it's all right. You still count. Even with emoticons. You always will._

It was a very long wait before the text came flashing in.  _You, too._ Then,  _I missed you._

This was deep water. Dangerous. Out of Sherlock's safe depth. Feeling like he was gambling his very soul, he keyed in,  _I missed you, too._

The room was silent and dim. He could hear his pulse—there wasn't much else to hear. It was slightly elevated. Not out of control. Just a touch quick. Each second that went by he was more aware that somewhere she was sitting, just like he was, with only their phones to tie her to him.

_Thank you, Sherlock._

_You're welcome._ It was time to change the topic. Time, and past time. _So. Have you seen any interesting bodies, lately? Intriguing patterns of rigor mortis? Unusual bruising? Anything worthy of a report on my website?_

_A few things._ Then she sent,  _Sherlock, I am going to see you again, aren't I? More than just this text? I mean, you don't have to. And I know you've still got to talk to the others. I just wondered._

_Oh bloody hell, Molly, do try not to be stupid. Of course you'll see me. Once this is over I'll be in and out of the lab all the time, just the same as always. Where else can I count on privacy and time alone with the corpses?_

_Of course. You're right. Of course it will be the same._

He could hear her voice in his mind palace, stressed and slightly hurt, and it made him want to run in circles and whine like a dog hearing a siren. He had to fight not to answer reflexively – and even then he could only type,  _I am what I am, Molly._

_I know._

_Don't ask me to be what I'm not._ He could see his hands, fingers tightening on the mobile, the faintest tremor shaking the screen.

_No. I won't even ask you to be all that you really are._ A short pause, and then,  _I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that._

_Don't be sorry._

_I am, though._

_Don't be. It's true. You shouldn't have to be sorry for truth._

_Why not? It's the one thing that hurts the most._

_No. Lies hurt the most. I should know._ He'd typed and sent the last messages so fast he'd hardly had time to censor them—and the time he'd had he hadn't used. He stared at the screen, looking at the short chain of messages.

Her response jogged the message scroll up another notch.  _I suppose you know about both of them…and, no, that's not supposed to be nasty. Just true._

_Yes. I understand._

_Sherlock?_

_Yes?_

_Don't ask me to be what I'm not, either. Okay? I mean, I can't stop being me. And I can't stop caring. I can't change that. I've tried._

_I won't._ Then, carefully, he typed,  _Some things are difficult. But you're worth it, Molly Hooper._

_Thank you. You are, too. Sherlock, don't take this wrong. I mean, like you said, you are what you are. But just so you know? I really love you._

He stared at the screen for far too long…so long she typed,  _I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that._

_It's all right._

_No. It's not. It's never all right._

_Molly, it's all right. Look, I just wanted to let you know I'm back. It's a place to start. Maybe…maybe lunch sometime, too? And of course, the lab._

_Yeah, I'd like that. Lunch and lab. And, yeah, it's difficult. But you're worth it._

_You, too. Molly?_

_Yes?_

_LV U 2_

This was why people liked emoticons and abbreviations. You could take terrifying, monumental things that could be taken all wrong and snowball out of control and ruin your life, and make them seem light as dust motes in a sunbeam. And you could send them on their way without your self-control catching on in time to stop you. Now his pulse did thunder, as he waited for her response. It was a relief when it came.

_LOL. Oh, Sherlock! That's…what did you call it? Oh, yeah. Common and trite. And debased, too. But…thanks._

_You're welcome, Molly._

_Later?_

_Later._

_Bye, then._

_Goodbye, Molly…and good night._

_You, too, Sherlock._

_Yes, me, too._

He waited for several minutes, then, to be sure she wasn't going to toss in one more text. When she didn't, he uncoiled himself and prepared for bed, reviewing the days to come, and pondering the challenges he still had to face—and the challenge he'd somehow miraculously just met.

To hell with Mycroft and all his platitudes about caring. Caring…mattered. Caring about Molly mattered.

He didn't know where their friendship was going. But for the first time he was aware that it was both a friendship and that it was going somewhere.

…and he had to admit, he wasn't bored.

 


	2. The Game's Afoot

"There you go, Molly. Five sealed envelopes for the med schools…and I've given you an open copy for your own. I know how hard it is to worry about what kind of recommendation you've been given. Do you have any preference for where you end up?"

Molly accepted the folder Dr Kemper, the head of the pathology department, handed her. She could feel the nervous energy run through her as though she'd drunk down a quart of strong coffee. She made herself stop worrying her lower lip and meet Kemper's eye without ducking or wincing. "I'd like it best if I could stay here, sir…at St. Barts. I'd at least like to stay in London, if I can."

"Then it's a good thing London has so many med schools," he said, amused. "Look, I think you've got a good chance to get in here. Your school record's not that impressive, but your UKCATS were fantasitic, and your work record here is solid. But don't set your heart on it. The schools like to see a bit of cross-pollination."

"I won't, sir. I'm not even counting on getting in anywhere."

"You'll get in somewhere, given time, Miss Hooper," Kemper said, already absently checking his pockets for his smart phone, without which he was helpless. "If not this year, another, so long as you keep at it. Your scores are good, you work hard, you're taking classes through our continuing ed program, and people like you. That's a valuable commodity in this world."

People  _didn't_  like her, though, she thought. They usually didn't even notice her, unless she'd made a mistake, or made a fool of herself somehow.

Still, Dr. Kemper had recommended her, and John Watson, and the professor in the master's level research methodologies class she'd audited. And she really had tested well on the UKCATs.

She'd been feeling so confident, lately. Why was she so frightened, all of a sudden?

She really didn't need to answer that question. Just asking it made her hand drift to the pocket of her lab coat and brush the case of her mobile. While he'd been gone she'd felt like Molly-the-Hero. Now he was back, and she was remembering what it was really like to be around him—to be one of his supporting cast of fools, idiots, morons, and dupes. What was it they called it in theater? Oh, right: his spear carrier. Or a straight-man. Straight-woman?

Whatever.

She'd been so happy to get his text. And it had been a good conversation. But…it was still so Sherlock-ish. She'd forgotten a bit what it was like to have him tell her to try not to be stupid…

She pulled the mobile out, pulled up the saved conversation, smiled, rolled her eyes, and sighed. She knew exactly what he'd have looked like as he typed each line, and exactly what he'd looked like as he read each of hers. She'd been watching that face for years, and she knew what he was really like—or she did when she made herself give up the daydreams and fantasies. By the end of that text conversation he'd have been half crawling out of his skin from the overload even the wary, reserved emotions they'd each expressed would have triggered. He'd have waited at the end, because he was Sherlock and he had to get the last word in, even in conversations that made him uncomfortable. But he'd have been ready for it to end, so he could wrap it up and move back a bit. The miracle was he'd said as much as he had, and let her say as much as she had. She wouldn't have put it past him to have faked a dropped signal just to avoid most of that discussion.

What, though, was she supposed to do with one miracle? Especially one that could only make her wish for another, and another, until Sherlock wasn't Sherlock any more. God help her, but he wasn't made to be a "leading man." The very idea would terrify and infuriate him…not that he'd ever admit to either, unless he admitted them to John Watson, and she doubted he'd even tell John all the things her observations had suggested were true about him.

She shook her head, and smiled ruefully at the mobile. "Of all the morgues in all the towns in all the world, why did you have to walk into mine, schweetheart?" she said.

"I can walk out again," said a familiar voice.

She spun, gasping, then snapped, "Dr. Watson, you scared me half to death. I didn't hear you come in."

He looked a little taken aback, and glanced around the otherwise empty room. "Ah…oh? I thought you were talking to me."

"Talking to myself. The brain's the first thing to go," she said, tucking the mobile back in her pocket. "I got the packet with your recommendations, and Dr. Kemper dropped his off just now. That means I can send my applications in tomorrow. I don't know how to thank you."

He stood and studied her, his hands shoved in his pockets. She had always thought he had a very nice face, with all the good and bad that went with the word "nice." It was a very ordinary face, and in spite of being barely on the edge of his forties, it was already well broken-in. Today he looked….shocky. More battered than he'd been since the weeks after….

Ah.

She could see him realize that she'd realized. One corner of his mouth flicked up for a fraction of a second, in a bitter, mocking grin; one shoulder hunched a rueful shrug. "Yes. Well. He's alive. But you knew that." There was an accusation in his voice.

She nodded, not knowing what to say. She dropped the file with Kemper's recommendation into her in-tray, then dragged a stool up to the lab table and began sorting a box of slides the student techs had been working with earlier.

"If you really want to thank me for my recommendation," Watson growled, "tell me what really happened that day."

"Didn't Sherlock tell you?"

"He told me. But he told me his way. His way he's always the hero. I thought maybe this time, though, you were."

She shook her head. "No. Just another sidekick. The usual." She met John Watson's eyes, then went back to her sorting, piling the slides by letter and then by number. "He really was the hero. He worked it out. He found a way out. He dealt with Moriarty. He saved your lives. He jumped, and he wasn't entirely sure his plan was going to work—but he jumped anyway, because it was the only way he could work out to protect you, in the time he had. He tried to make it work out another way…but Moriarty ended that by putting a bullet through his own head."

"You're sure?" Watson growled. "Or was he as clever as Sherlock?"

"He'd have to have had a spare body and a way to move into it," she said. "I helped do the autopsy, since I was already…what did Sherlock's brother call me? Oh, right. 'Compromised.' I already knew too much. So I helped with the autopsy. The only way he's alive is if there's been a zombie apocalypse…and even then, he's going to need some extra brains. Most of his got spread across the roof." Her eyes flicked automatically to the imagined location of that death, on a rooftop high above them.

"Mycroft knew, too?"

"He had to. I couldn't have helped Sherlock much, beyond what I did."

"What did you do?"

"Arranged for some of the swap…the parts Sherlock didn't arrange himself. Or his brother didn't sort out afterward. There were plenty of people who owed Sherlock favors." She flicked him an apologetic glance. "I'm the one who called in the report about Mrs. Hudson, and told them to contact you. Sherlock wanted to keep you safe. I'm sorry."

He grunted, frowned, started to say something, then sighed. "Hell. Forgiven. I'd have done the same for him, if it had been the other way around. What else did you do?"

"I helped make sure no one got a really good look at him. I arranged for the blood. Helped get him on the gurney and into the hospital. Mycroft and I worked together to bugger the records. Other than that, I'm sure you know more than I do, now. Most of what I did was make sure he didn't die. It wasn't entirely safe and he…the blood wasn't all a trick."

"Why you? Why not me? I'm a doctor. I could have helped."

Molly could hear the unresolved hurt, the anger, the feelings of being used and then discarded. She struggled between wanting to slap Sherlock for his friend's sake, and being unsure how to explain...especially when the truth of it still her hurt.

"Because I didn't count," she said, softly. "Jim…Moriarty. He never realized Sherlock cared about me…or that he trusted me. I wasn't one of his targets. He used me to study Sherlock, because he knew I cared about Sherlock and worked with him sometimes. Then he dumped me, because he didn't think I was useful anymore. But he never found out Sherlock cared about me."

She could see the understanding lighten his eyes—understanding touched with a compassion that made her squirm. "He didn't know, because you didn't."

"And because Sherlock was such a bastard to me when Jim was there. Well…he was a bastard most of the time, really. So Jim - Moriarty wasn't watching me. He hadn't set assassins on me. He didn't know Sherlock could trust me to help if he had to. You couldn't have done that. Everyone knew you were…"

"Everyone knew I was his hostage to fortune."

She shrugged. "Yes. You, and Mrs. Hudson, and DI Lestrade. No one  _else_  knew about me, either. You didn't write about me. Sherlock didn't….I'm not… I'm just Molly. I don't count. No one looked. No newspaper reporters interviewed me—not before, not after. It never entered Greg Lestrade's mind to bring me in for questioning. If it helps, I don't think even Sherlock looked at me, until he had to. He only realized when I said I didn't count. I'm invisible, most of the time. But that night…" She ducked, hoping he wouldn't catch the emotions that churned as she thought about that night. "That night, he said I counted…that I'd always counted. And then he explained why that mattered. Why I could do things for him no one else could do. Because I was invisible."

"Not as invisible as you thought. Not invisible at all, now. He's not going to forget after this."

She cocked her head and sighed. "He won't remember any more than he's comfortable with, I suspect." She slipped off the stool and returned the box of slides to their proper place on the other side of the room.

"You knew he was back."

"Yes."

"He called you."

"Texted."

He gave a sudden bark of laughter—a happier laugh than she'd expected. "Of course. He texted. I should have known."

She risked a grin. "Well, he  _is_  still Sherlock. Are you…are you going to forgive him?"

"What choice do I have?" he asked, sounding a bit hollow-indeed, Molly thought he sounded as though he'd been poured out and left half empty. "If it wasn't for him, I'd probably be dead, now, instead of trying to decide whether to propose to Mary." He sighed, but he did seem a bit less shaken than when he'd arrived. "I don't like it. The arse really does get on my tits, sometimes. But…" he chuckled. "But I nutted him hard when he first walked in. He's got a lump the size of a baby's fist right in the middle of his forehead…and a bloody nose to go with it from where I landed a good one. And then when I told him I wasn't going to go back to Baker Street, and that I was thinking of getting married, he turned green, then went and tossed his lunch up in the lav before he came back out and pretended to be happy for me. So I think we're probably even."

"I'm impressed," she said, looking him over. "You got out without a mark."

"He didn't fight back. I think it was penance."

Her brows went up in true surprise. "Maybe he  _is_  growing up!"

"Either that or Peter Pan's panicking because the Lost Boys managed to get on with life while he was gone. Look, I'm on my way back to my place. I think your apartment's on the way. Want to share a cab?"

She nodded, and collected her coat.

"So you're still applying for med school? Have you told Sherlock?"

"No."

"Surprise him with it. And if he upchucks in the lav again, I want to hear about it." He helped her on with her coat, then held the door for her, pausing to let her lock up behind them. He cleared his throat, obviously embarrassed, and asked, "What did he say to you? When he called…texted. You know. What did he say?"

Her hand slipped into her pocket again. She stroked the mobile phone. For a moment she considered showing John. It would be nice to have the advice of one of the few "consulting Sherlockologists" in existence. But it was, on the whole, private. "He said he was back. And…and he said I still counted."

She almost failed to notice he wasn't following her until she was halfway down the hall. When she turned, he was studying her in mixed surprise and mischief.

"Doctor? ...John?"

"Sorry….so sorry. Um…" He loped to catch up, and offered her his arm, then smiled down at her, looking as though he might just start giggling. He wasn't anywhere near as tall as Sherlock—almost her own height—but there was a solid warmth to him that more than made up for height.

She smiled at his grin. "What's so funny?"

He snorted. "Nothing. Nothing… Just…The game's afoot, Molly! I think Sherlock's life has just gotten a bit more interesting than even he'll know how to handle."

All the way to the curb he whistled "Dueling Banjos," with his eyes on fire with laughter.


	3. Six Pomegranate Pips

It had all seemed so simple at first. Indeed, part of him had expected his return to be a personal victory lap, as he revealed himself alive, bragged about his cleverness, explained how he'd outwitted Moriarty, protected them, and gone on to clean out most of Moriarty's network. Secretly he'd imagined shock, and, yes, some anger as they realized they'd been tricked yet again, shown up yet again. And, yes, very well, some anger over having thought he'd died. But then there would be joy, welcome, surprised delight. After the obligatory, if rather distasteful hugging and crying and so on and so forth that ordinary people insisted on, they'd bathe him in their awe and admiration, their bemused fascination with his genius and  _sang-froid_. He'd expected them to shiver as he told about his own fear as he released himself to gravity and plummeted down with no assurance he'd live, other than reliance on Molly's skill, talent, and thoroughness –and, well, after all:  _Molly!_ They'd be amazed he'd trusted his life to so apparently thin a thread, and more amazed his judgment had proven so overwhelmingly correct—almost as though he'd invented Molly himself.

His return didn't go according to script. Indeed, his friends…former friends? No, damn it, his  _friends_ didn't appear to know their lines, their blocking, their cues. Instead they seemed to be taking part in some entirely different play, and to be waiting for him to deliver lines he didn't know. When they didn't get those lines…

John did indeed punch him. He had to—only when Sherlock was doubled over John's fist was his head low enough for John to nut him—the man had a skull of titanium, Sherlock was willing to swear it. And then, as Sherlock staggered back, he landed a swift jab to Sherlock's nose. And if that was bad it was nothing compared to the first minutes of screaming silence after Sherlock approached him. The shock and pain and aching betrayal on John's face as he saw, recognized, denied, accepted, and realized what his friend had done to him…

A fist in the stomach, a bash on the head, and bloody nose had seemed a small price to pay. And then John had made it far too clear he didn't want to room with Sherlock. And then he implied he'd found someone, and was getting married, which changed everything in ways that left Sherlock beyond confusion…and almost grateful he'd been punched in the gut: it gave him a good excuse for his sudden retreat to the loo.

Mrs. Hudson had seemed easier. At first. She'd stopped short, as though she'd seen a ghost, and her hands had come up to cover her mouth as she murmured, "Oh, oh… Oh, Sherlock… You stupid, stupid boy… whatever  _did_ you do?" Her eyes had filled with tears—but when he went to hug her she'd smacked him on the arm, and snapped, "You were  _dead,_ Sherlock. Dead! And that poor, nice friend of yours crushed like…like… I don't know like. Like a daisy on the sidewalk. Just smashed." Then she'd wobbled, and grabbed the wall, and declared she needed a bit of a sit, and refused to let him help her…and refused to invite him in. "I've got to think about it, Sherlock. Lord love you, I know you've no more idea what you've done than a cat that's stolen the last bit of meat in the house… well, we all know what you're like, after all. But—" In a completely baffling muddle of conflicting actions she'd rushed forward and hugged him, pushed him away, called him a dear, dear boy, announced he was an idiot, smacked him on the arm again…and raced into her flat, slamming the door behind her.

He'd stood in the hall and listened to her cry…soft, muffled sounds, as though she'd shoved one of her vulgar decorative cushions with the twee embroidery mottoes against her face to mute her sobs. He'd had no idea what to do then. He still had no idea.

Oddly, Lestrade had been the least difficult…and even then it wasn't what one could consider a jolly sort of adventure. Sherlock had waited to meet Greg in the car-park after work, thinking to avoid a scene in Scotland Yard. The DI had spotted him and stopped—not shocked, not amazed, but almost wearily, like a man who's been burned once too often, and isn't sure he wants to reach for the bright, shiny flame yet again. After a moment he'd quite obviously sighed—a sigh deep enough to be seen at a distance, and begun a weary trudge to his car, where Sherlock waited. As he approached, he gestured lightly, shooing Sherlock away from the driver's side door.

"I see you're back."

"I see you knew I might be." Sherlock hoped that forewarning might improve Lestrade's reactions—at least, as compared to John and Mrs. Hudson's.

"No. Didn't have a clue. Learned a bit about Moriarty afterward, during the cleanup, though—enough to know he'd been playing you for a total berk. Learned enough to think maybe you'd figured out how to take him with you when you went. But I went to your funeral, just like the rest…wore a black armband and everything, and didn't give sod-all what Sally and the rest had to say about it." He opened his door and tossed an armload of case files across to the passenger's seat. Only then did he stop and look into Sherlock's eyes. "We got bits of information from upstream. Not enough; never enough. Enough to think there were people-who-can't-be-named who were making a point of clearing your name. Enough to think maybe there would be more story, someday. But…" He shrugged. "It was enough to make me think maybe you didn't have another way out. But it's not enough to make me like it. I have a damned hard time believing you did less damage this way than if you'd…lived."

Sherlock at least felt on solid ground: Lestrade was hitting him with reason, of a sort. Sherlock was  _good_ at reason. "I don't know. If I'd lived, you'd have been the one dead… Dying seemed like a better idea at the time."

"Yeah. Well. Maybe I think dying would have been easier for me, too," Lestrade said, voice not angry, or bitter, or challenging. Just tired, and worn out. "But I didn't get that choice. You did." He sighed, and ran his fingers through his hair, and leaned against the frame of the car. At last he said, "I'm glad you're back. But…it's not the same. I don't think it will be, either. But—welcome back." He held out his hand, and Sherlock forced himself to take it and shake hands, as though they were simply friendly business associates reunited after a long separation…

And, he thought, maybe that's all they were. Maybe that's all they'd ever been.

They'd talked a few more minutes. Lestrade had given him his current contact information. They'd agreed that maybe someday they should get together for a beer and a chat…but had set no date or time. Then Lestrade had slipped into his car and driven away, leaving Sherlock in the echoing cement car-park, the wind blowing around his legs, batting the heavy hem of his coat against his shins. Even hunched into the heavy wool with his collar turned up high, he'd felt cold. Suddenly he missed Islamabad: minarets, danger, heat, and clean, clean alienation from the entire world around him.

He knew he was in trouble when he accepted a dinner invitation at the Diogenes Club with Mycroft. They ate in silence, only the clatter of the diner's silverware on china breaking the hush of the dining room. Even the waiters were silent, offering menus without a word regarding the special of the day or the particularly fine chateaubriand and accepting orders given by nothing louder than a pointing finger moving along the listed entrees and starters. Only when they were finished and ensconced in the Stranger's Room did Sherlock get a chance to tell his brother what the past week had been like. It was a good thing he'd never really expected sympathy, as he received none.

"It seems to me you've nothing to complain about, Sherlock. None of them killed you. None of them shunned you. Asking more would be entirely too optimistic. They have suffered to stand at your graveside. You will have to suffer them time to come back. If they ever do. I told you it would be better to let them go."

"Better for whom?" Sherlock snapped.

"Better for them, of course. As I understand the theory, as their friend you're supposed to value that over your own desires." His deep eyes were as they'd been for years: still and chill, with the cold of someone who'd hurt and hurt, and finally chosen never to hurt any more…and who'd failed, and yet still fought on.

Sherlock didn't know what to say to those cold, aching eyes. He never did. It always angered him. So he did what he always did, and left on the tailwind raised by a few cutting remarks.

His hotel room suited him less well after being trapped in it for a week. The comfortable aura of being broken in had somehow turned to a sense that it was merely broken down.

Only one person so far had seemed glad he'd returned, he thought. Of course, she was one of the very few who'd known to expect the possibility, and one of the few who'd ensured that return was possible.

He hadn't texted her in over a week.

She hadn't texted him.

Well, of course not.  _Molly_ , after all. She wouldn't. She'd twitter and fret and worry that he'd feel imposed on, and wish he'd text her, and dither, and fuss.

He showered, wrapped himself in a silk shalwaar, and proceeded to brood in the dark room. He'd pulled the curtains wide, tonight, and he stared out into the street bellow, regretting he was in a place with no view worth mentioning. It would have been nice to stare out over London only to have the London eye stare back.

The phone in his pocket sighed a sensual, abandoned sigh. He found himself grabbing it like a lifeline.

_I hear you're not dead. Have you dined?_

_With Mycroft._

_Where's the fun in that? No…no need to answer. There is none._

_Not much, no._

_And how is the weather in dear old Blighty? No…no need to answer that, either. Cold,wet, and windy._

_Quite._

_It makes being dead look so much more appealing. It was thirty degrees* today: I wore that little top you like so much. I had lamb khoresh for dinner. I finished with pomegranates. Sabiha counted us out six pips each and served them over yogurt and honey. We ate on the balcony as the sun went down._

He didn't know what to write back. He could imagine the spacious, blue-tiled Indo-European flat with the wood-railed balcony that looked out over the roofs and minarets of the town. He could smell the warm breeze. Two weeks ago he'd been there, half-mad in his readiness to return to England. Now, he ached to go back into exile.

She'd noted his failure to respond.  _You can always die again, darling._ He could imagine her wicked, feral smile, the look of a dangerous demon in her eyes…

_No. It appears one death was already more than I was entitled to._

_So you won't come back and rule in hell with me? You make such a compelling Hades._

_You just like pomegranates and playing Persephone._

_Queen of the dead and the damned? Of course. You can't say you didn't relish your own role in that little play._

No. He couldn't. He'd enjoyed it dangerously much. He could have played it forever…

_I had to come back._

_We've got it backward, Mr. Holmes. It's Persephone who returns to the land of the living. And she's got the good sense to go to Greece, in spring—not to Blighty in autumn._

_Persephone was a maiden. I think that counts you out._

_By the time Persephone returned home, I think she'd lost her bouquet. But, still, I admit you're the better choice: far more convincing as the deflowered virgin. You've just got the season wrong._

She was an education; an education and a half. Apparently it took a remarkable depth of knowledge to be all women to all…clients. But the sexy, suggestive texts reminded him of how much work she was…and how pointless it would be to type in "Do you miss me?" The answer would be no, not really. Never really.

Depending on the time or the mood, he could find that wonderful and freeing…or not.

Tonight the answer was "not."

Still, he knew how to play the game, now. He'd learned. She was an excellent teacher, and she knew what motivated him. His fingers flew, and letters spooled out onto the screen.

_Maybe we've got it backward. After all, winter in England is hell. Look for me in springtime, Persephone._

_Islamabad in summer is hell, Sherlock._

_Not when you're there._

_What a clever boy you are._

_Clever enough._

_You'll do._

_And undo._

_Yes—and you'll go on all night rather than be the one to quit. I'm not so stubborn, and Sabiya is calling me. Good night, my prince of darkness._

_Good night,_ he typed back…but he expected no reply.

He stared at the phone. Slipped it back in his pocket. Pulled it out again. Put it back. He paced the room. Missed his violin. Paced the room some more. Considered going out for a pack of cigarettes. Considered going out for…other stimulants.

He was bored, he thought.

He opened the mini-fridge, and pulled out a seltzer water and a tiny bottle of whiskey. He almost poured himself a drink—but then the thought of being trapped in this room drinking whiskey and soda from a tiny bottle and a can out of a mini-fridge just seemed too bleak even for him.

His hand slipped into his pocket. He pulled out the mobile phone. He woke it up. He pulled up a name.

_Are you awake? SH_

Yes.

_John and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade are all angry with me._

_Yes. You knew they would be._

_I didn't know they'd be this angry._

_I think you probably did know…or could have, if you'd given them as much time as you'd give a case you were solving._

_Ouch…you've learned knife fighting since I've been gone, Molly!_

_Scalpels. Tools of my profession. I'm good at post mortems._

_Are you saying all my friendships are dead?_

She didn't respond for a long moment.  _No. At least…no more dead than you've been._

_Then they'll come back to life, sometime?_

_Maybe._

_When?_

_When they're ready to risk you, I guess?_

_Did I really hurt them that much?_

_You know you did._

_I didn't think I had._

_Yes, Sherlock. You did. You always do. You always know how deep you've cut. You just keep hoping we'll admire the skill so much we won't notice we're bleeding._

The words pulled up memories of a Christmas party he preferred not to remember.

He didn't like this. It wasn't the comfort he'd hoped. But he'd made the call, and he couldn't be the first to end it. He wouldn't.

_I think you're an imposter. Where have you hidden the real Molly Hooper?_

_You're the detective, Sherlock. You figure it out. I'm going to bed now. Goodnight._

_Molly?_

_Yes?_

_I thought we could talk._

_I was out with John and Mary, today, for lunch._

_What does that have to do with anything?_

_It doesn't. It just means I'm not feeling like talking, tonight. Goodnight, Sherlock._

_What are you doing tomorrow? We could go out to eat._

_Sorry. I'm busy._

_Doing what?_

_Got a first-round interview at a med school._

_What?_

_Later, Sherlock._

_No, wait. What?_

_Med school, Sherlock. I'm turning the phone off, Sherlock. Good night, Sherlock._

He typed and hit send five more times…but she never answered.

*Thirty degrees Celsius – eighty-six degrees Fahrenheit.

 


	4. A Case of Identity

"Have you agreed to let him move back into 221B, Mrs. Hudson?" Molly asked, passing the serving bowl of chicken tikka masala to her friend, then pushing the basmati rice along her way, too.

"Tchk. No, dear. Still can't decide if I want him up there, to tell you the truth. All the bother and the mess and the odd hours, and the gloomy violin music, and the manky dead things in the fridge and around the place, and gunshots—before sunup even, and the class of people he brings in…I swear, I might as well be living with my husband, and that's a fact. It was one thing before all this, but now?" She clucked again, eyed the chicken tikka masala with some severity, then decided to add one more dollop of sauce to her plate. "When I think of poor John... I swear. Well-it doesn't bear thinking about, now does it? Sherlock should be ashamed of himself, but…"

"But he's Sherlock," Molly agreed, resigned. "You're not angry with me, too, are you?"

"Oh, gracious, don't be silly. As if! Good heavens, you were trying to save his life…and it's not like he was good enough to tell you he was well and everything was going a treat, is it?" She shot a sharp look across the table. "Is it? He didn't go sending you reassuring text messages, now, did he?"

"Not me. Mycroft, maybe. Not me." She fought not to sigh.

Mrs. Hudson did it for her—an aggravated, huffy, "oh-that-man" sort of sigh. "I thought not. Save his life and he still can't be bothered to say he got off the boat safely in Paris, can he?"

Molly gave a crooked grin, and prodded her own bengan bartha with a piece of naan. "He's…Sherlock."

"Yes. Well. He can be Sherlock, but I may just tell him to go be Sherlock in someone else's upstairs flat."

"You'll break his heart, you know."

"Heart! What heart? Heartless as a young alley cat, he is."

"Now, that's not fair," Molly argued, ladling raita onto another piece of naan. She slorped a mouthful, and almost lost a drizzle down her chin and onto her best jersey. She caught it with one finger and licked it neatly off. She could see Sherlock's face in her memory. Oddly, it was the night she still thought of as one of the worst in her life: the Christmas party he'd been so awful. But he'd apologized, and it was the first time she'd ever seen remorse in his eyes, or shame. Or, for that matter, seen him spontaneously apologize without it obviously being a ploy…at least, obvious to those who knew him. She frowned at her clean-ish damp-ish finger. "He's got a heart. He…just doesn't use it often. But if you turn him away it  _will_  break."

"I'd been thinking of offering it to John and Mary—you know.  _After._  A place to start out, you know?"

Molly shook her head. "You know better, Mrs. H. They're going to want someplace that's their own, not  _Sherlock's_. And you know to John 221B will always be Sherlock's."

"Oh, I suppose you're right," the older woman agreed, peevishly. "But it just feels wrong, him coming back after what he put all of us through. I mean, dying would be bad enough. Being killed would be bad enough. But— jumping like that! And making John watch!"

"I think Moriarty forced a lot of that," Molly said, apologetically.

"Not all of it."

"No. But, then, Sherlock had to make it stick. John and you and Greg Lestrade weren't going to be safe unless Moriarty's people thought Sherlock was dead. Believed it. Really, really believed it."

"Oh, stop making excuses for him, Molly. You always do. It's…it's indecent, that's what it is. The way he can count on you no matter how horrible he gets!" She looked outright angry, now.

"But I don't," Molly said. "Or…not any more, I don't." She suddenly laughed, and grinned in cat-in-the-cream amusement at Mrs. Hudson. "I hung up on him the other night. Well—turned off the phone so he couldn't text me anymore. And without him saying a single awful thing to me. Just because he was being annoying and Sherlocky and thinking I had to pay attention to him because…I don't know. Because he was bored and wanted someone to talk to."

Mrs. Hudson's eyes were wide. "You never did!"

"Did!"

"You're serious?"

"Yes. I am." She said it like a little girl who'd won a spell-off, with the same radiant satisfaction. "It was the night before my interview with Dr. Vanda, about going into the forensics program over at Queen Mary's. Sherlock texted me, and was all 'pay attention to me' without actually saying that. And I'd just seen John and Mary for lunch that day, and between seeing John – I swear, he's lost a full stone this month – and talking to Mary in the loo – I wasn't feeling very sorry for him when he started whining that all of you were mad at him. More like smacking him, if you want to know. And when I pointed out he kind of should have expected it, and that he should have known how much he hurt you all, he got huffy and asked what I'd done with the 'real' Molly Hooper. And then when I said I was going to bed, he wanted to set up a lunch with me the next day. And when I said I was busy, he wanted to know why—like I couldn't possibly be too busy to have lunch with him. And when I said I had an interview for med school he just…I mean... Okay, all he really said was 'what?' But…"

"But he's Sherlock, and we all know what he sounded like…that voice like you just said you could fly to Mars in a ballet tutu. So—?"

"So I told him I was turning the phone off, and I told him good night. And I turned the phone off. And you know what?" Her eyes were shining with joy,

"What?" Mrs. Hudson asked, as fascinated as a gossiping schoolgirl herself.

"I slept just  _fine_. And I went to the interview, and I felt  _smart._ And  _competent_. And…I'm not sure if I'd let Sherlock keep me awake I'd have felt that way. He's—he… he can be like running face-first into a harvesting machine. He can cut my ego to ribbons."

"That's our Sherlock, Lord love him."

"That last night, before he was gone, it was…wonderful and horrible and terrifying, and the first time I ever felt like I mattered. And I did  _well_ , Mrs. H. I really, really did well. It wasn't all him, you know. Not all the thinking, and not all the making it work. I did well. And then he was gone. And for months and months I felt wonderful, and capable, and like Molly Hooper, who counted. Who he could trust. And then he came back, and he texted me. And I was so happy to hear from him. And…and he was nice, too. Except...except when he wasn't. When he told me to try not to be stupid. And then he was so stupid himself, about John and you and Greg. And…I don't know. I'm just glad I went to that interview knowing I was strong enough to turn off the phone and go to sleep, instead of sitting there trying to be perfect for him and letting him make me feel…little."

They were both silent a moment. The moment…stretched.

"Mrs. Hudson?"

"Hush, dear, I'm thinking. Be a good girl and order me a cuppa-the nice kind...you know, with cardamom-and a some rice pudding, will you?"

Molly flagged a waiter, and ordered two teas and two rice puddings, and waited while her friend pondered, seeking answers in the bowl of a spoon. The tea came, and Mrs. Hudson sugared it, added milk. She took a deep sip, sighed in contentment, then looked across the table.

"I think, dear, you're very smart. Smarter than you think you are…and much smarter than Sherlock thinks, at least on a bad day. He's got to take his own knocks—and you have to take care of yourself, and sleep, and get ready for medical school. But…let him know it went well. Just a little text. No more. Don't offer to chat. Just…let him know."

Molly looked at her, trying to fathom what she was up to. "You're sure?"

Mrs. Hudson gave a sharp, explosive laugh, and slapped the table playfully. "Don't be silly! He's Sherlock. Who knows what goes on in that twisty little mind? I just think it might be good for both of you for this to be the new normal. Right? You're Molly, and you hang up on him when he's being annoying, and you go to interviews for medical school—and you text him to let him know it went well. And it's all normal. Right?"

Molly considered. "It would be an awfully nice kind of normal."

"Yes. It would."

Molly sipped at her own tea, sweet and cloudy with milk. "Mrs. Hudson?"

"What, lovie?"

"I…don't know if I'm in love with him anymore."

"You weren't in love with him before, ducks," Mrs. Hudson said, ruefully. "You were sick-as-a-dog mad for him. But you weren't in love."

"Then what am I now?"

"You're Molly Hooper, dear. And you've got a chance to  _learn_ how you feel about him, now. Not many of us ever get that second chance—not with the ones who make our heads spin and our stomach sick and our hands shake. You're lucky."

"What if I don't love him? I mean, what if I don't  _love_ -love him? I don't know who I am, if I don't. I've been mad for him so long. It would be like getting a new identity."

"Then you're probably luckier still. First, you could use a new identity besides being that poor, mad-for-him girl—a whole new  _case_  full of identity! Second, I don't know if he can fall in love back. And whether he can or can't, either way, loving him wouldn't be a weekend holiday to the Lake Country. Just friends might be best. But even if you're unlucky, and it's love, this time around you don't have to let him make you feel…little. Because you are  _not little,_  Molly Hooper! No, no, you let me get the check. You may be a starving medical student, soon. Save your money."

The two women gathered their things, pulled on their coats, and headed out into the streets promising to do lunch again in a week or so.

Molly returned to the lab and was kept busy for the next few hours with a whole series of blood chemistries that had to be run. Only at three did she have time to stop for a cup of tea and a moment to think. She pulled her phone out, laid it on the smooth steel of her desk, and pondered. She sipped her tea. She pulled the phone close, pulled up Sherlock's name, and typed gingerly, with one finger.

_Thought I'd let you know. Been to two interviews this week. Looks good. Next year I may be a forensics student at Cameron, at Queen Mary._

She drank more tea, staring, wondering. He didn't answer. She sighed, pulled out her Kindle, read a bit of a new Regency. When her tea was gone he still hadn't replied. She slipped the phone in her pocket, washed her cup, and went back out to run more blood chem. At the end of the day she closed up, picked up a sandwich on her way home, and curled up in front of the TV with Toby, her cat.

She was half-way through an episode of Dr. Who when the phone vibrated.

_Forensics? SH_

_That's the plan,_ she typed back.

_At Cameron?_

_I've applied several places. Mostly in London. St. Barts, of course._

_Well, well, well. Molly Hooper! Who knew? How were your UKCATs?_

_Top tenth percentile._

_Very good. I only made top twentieth._

_I didn't know you applied to med school._

_I didn't. I only thought I might. My life took a detour right about then._

_Should I ask?_

There was no answer at first. Then…

_I'd rather you didn't. I wasn't at my brilliant best. I'd gotten bored. I'm not good when I'm bored._

She looked at the text, and wondered—no, suspected—that "chemicals" and policemen and Mycroft cleaning up some nasty little details might be hiding behind the simple words.

_No, you're not. You're bad when you're bored, aren't you?_

_Quite._

_Maybe that should be next on your to-deduce list: how not to be bored._

_That's not exactly something you can deduce._

Don't play "mother," she told herself.  _I agree it's probably harder for some people than others._

She could almost see him pout.

_I need challenges._

_Build your own challenges. But I'm not going to lecture you. It's your life. You'll tell me if you need help. Meanwhile—I've mainly been looking at forensics and pathology, but I'm not sure that's where I want to end up. What do you think?_

The message again failed to come for the longest time.

_I think that you should do whatever interests you, Molly Hooper, because talent and brains and courage are not an issue._

She nearly dropped the phone—and she did jump enough to rate an evil glare from Toby, whose nap she had interrupted. She wrapped her arms around herself and forced herself to think. At last, she whispered, "The new normal," and simply typed,

_Thanks. I'm beginning to think so, myself._


	5. You Know My Methods, Molly

Sherlock was bored, he was angry, and no one liked him anymore. He had no cases coming in – most of England still thought he was dead  _and_  a fake. He had no one left to chase – what little was left of Moriarty's network wasn't worth it even for entertainment-value. When Mycroft had agreed it was time for him to come back in from death, that highly official "unofficial" source of work had dried up, at least for now. At the moment there were only a few positive features in his life, and those were…unsettling. Profoundly unsettling.

Mrs. Hudson, for example, had agreed to let him move back to 221B Baker Street. He'd long since grown sick of his hotel room; that alone would have put him into his high-speed mode to move back in. However, his landlady's distinct lack of enthusiasm had him shifting his things out of storage and into the flat even faster than he'd managed to move the first time, for fear she change her mind.

He'd had approximately fifteen minutes of glorious satisfaction—fifteen minutes that started when he first unlocked the door and looked in on the old, familiar rooms and had ended when he put his own steel-framed armchair in its proper place at one side of the fireplace, and realized there was no squashed, homely old overstuffed armchair to go on the other side. From that moment on the move was like a carefully constructed object lesson proving the old saying, "You can't go home again." Or perhaps, "You don't know what you've got till it's gone." He had never before realized how little room John's possessions took up amongst all his own clutter…nor how much their scant and humble presence defined his sense of home.

Almost as bad, Mrs. Hudson was barely talking to him. No more chipper trips up the stairs to put a treat in his fridge. No more fond invitations down for "beans and toast for supper, lovie? Save yourself some pans and some wash-up?" And there was a list of new rules thumb-tacked to the door. It indicated the times when he was not to play his violin. It also listed things he was not to do at all: shoot guns in the house for anything but immediate defensive purposes; keep human body parts in the flat—with an exception made for Sherlock's skull, on the express condition he loan it to her Little Theater group for their next production of Hamlet…

She wasn't the only one not talking to him. John was an aching silence of unstated reproaches, punctuated by the rare, but blistering not-so-unstated one. Lestrade was busy working on an open-and-shut that would have been beneath Sherlock, had he not been so desperate—but Lestrade wasn't inviting Sherlock to kibbitz, this time. The one time Sherlock tried to goad him into it, pointing out the Detective Inspector was making long work of a short case, Lestrade's earthy response had suggested to Sherlock that, perhaps, this particular technique of forcing an opening through gadfly critique would no longer serve him in future. Indeed, "suggested" was probably not a forceful enough word for it. Any more direct a statement of territorial defense on Lestrade's part would have given Sherlock room to claim police brutality. The sound of Sally and Anderson's loud cheering had not added a ray of sunshine to the all-encompassing gloom as he'd stalked away from the D.I.'s office.

Mycroft, too, was busy…the sort of busy that involved sudden silences so solid you could crack a hardboiled egg on them, and mysterious messages and actions that conveyed the perfumed scent of super-ultra-totally-top-secret international affairs. We-shoot-you-if-you-find-out stuff—the kind Sherlock had been merrily taking part in only months before, when he'd still been informally on Her Majesty's payroll of highly secretive specialists.

Sherlock wasn't sure how to even proceed. Somehow he'd simply assumed he'd come home, everyone would ultimately be delighted to see him, John would write one of his effusive blog entries explaining everything, clearing Sherlock's name, and opening their doors for business once more, and things would proceed along proper and reasonably entertaining lines. Instead, the one time Sherlock had ventured to bring up John's blog, his friend had turned grey and walked abruptly out of the room, and that woman to whom he was in the apparently slow-motion process of becoming engaged and married had presumed to attack Sherlock like a terrier rounding on a particularly pesky rat. Her verbal skills had proven…educational.

There were not many people Sherlock was unwilling to spar with for fear of not only losing, but of licking his own emotional wounds for weeks after—indeed, until Mary Marston had lit into him, Sherlock would have limited the list to Mycroft, Irene, and very, very rarely, to John, who usually won by playing dirty, and taking advantage of Sherlock's desire to have at least one person in the world who believed he had a "better nature." According to Mary Marston, though, Sherlock had no such thing, nor ever would. Worse, she made a virtually ironclad argument supporting her claim.

At the end of his first week back in 221B, he was getting desperate…

_How are things in Islamabad, Persephone? SH_

_Very busy. Forgive me if I don't talk: I'm on company time, and my company is expecting some quality chastisement._

_Make him wait for it._

_Her…and she has. Deliciously so. Really, dear, some other time. I can't keep the client hanging._

_Wait… I was thinking. Maybe I could fly out to see you for a week or so…_

_Oh, terrible timing, Sherlock. I'm booked solid right now, and I can't risk having you here. The wrong people would notice. And I know you: you'd be sure to notice the wrong people._

_After Halloween?_

_Try for after New Years. Seriously, I've got to go. Work's just begging for attention. Bye..._

It could be a tease, he thought. A ploy to make him jealous, to bring him back to her flat and her bed.

He dismissed the thought, uneasily certain she was happily focused on business, her newest lover Sabiha, and on her own plans—which were forever and always quite distinct from his own. Irene didn't do togetherness. Or, as she herself had put it soon after he'd rendezvoused with her in Islamabad, "Don't expect me to be John Watson, Sherlock. I'm not going to settle into happy domestic bliss with you, both of us sitting all cozy in our armchairs and our slippers in front of the fireplace at 221B. That's  _your_ idea of the good life. Mine involves designer dresses, well-kept leather novelties, lots of expensive gifts—some of them given quite unwillingly—and regular changes of address. Sometimes forced changes of address, just to keep things interesting."

No. It was fairly likely every word had truly been intended to discourage him from visiting…and if they also made him squirm a bit, and scorched his vanity? Well…it was Irene, after all. Meting out punishment was both her talent and her calling.

Sherlock thought of going out to Islamabad anyway. "The wrong people" were likely to be men and women Mycroft would want to know about: dignitaries of both the legitimate and illegitimate ruling classes, coming back to Irene because the coast was clear: Mycroft's Hound had been called in from the field. Irene wouldn't thank him for it, though. If he went back now, he'd be both unwelcome and inconvenient. He had no illusions: Irene was as wild and independent as he was…no…she was more so. He could not, for example, imagine her coming back to an empty flat, looking for the warmth of lost times and frayed friendships.

Which left him with only one redeeming bright spot in his life—and that spot had proven as unsettling as the rest.

_Hello, Molly. Want to do lunch? I could kill for a curry. SH_

_Sorry, Sherlock. Got a backlog of paperwork to fill out. I brought lunch in with me today._

_Any interesting corpses?_

_No. Not unless you're interested in a few cancer deaths._

_I'll take what I can get. See you in a quarter hour._

_But…_

_But what?_

_Nothing. See you soon, Sherlock. But no getting me in trouble. I don't want a reprimand messing up my applications. Okay?_

_You take all the fun out of it._

_Don't pout, Sherlock. Once I'm in med school you can start working over Nigel. I think he's next in line to be senior morgue assistant. He's always game for a bit of fun._

Sherlock knew Nigel, and Nigel was no Molly Hooper. But beggars couldn't be choosers. In the meantime he still had access to the morgue and to the one and only Molly. He scrambled into his coat and scarf, hailed a cab, and was over at St. Barts in a matter of minutes, sparing only one icy glance for the roof's edge from which he had plummeted to his "death."

He'd  _won_  that game. He was not about to waste anguish and remorse and vile, entrapping  _sentiment_  on the memory…or on the remembered ghost of John, a tiny figure at the back of the turn-around, staring up in endless horror to where a ghost-Sherlock stood staring back down, phone pressed to his ear, crying.

No. He would waste no time on that at all. He'd won-won-won-won- _ **won**_ , and it was over. And that was that.

He crashed into Molly's lab like the king of storms, face thunderous and coat swirling around him in the wind of his own passage. He was talking at high speed before the doors even shut behind him.

"You've moved the microscope bank. I don't like it, but it does make room for the new Keyance digital—very nice, I'll be pleased to take that out for a spin—but the lighting's bad and it's pushed the equipment racks off to the side. Very inconvenient, I think you should do something about that." He was rattling away, his mouth an automatic weapon with the safety off, barely willing to spare a glance for Molly, who he now knew saw too much of him too clearly. When he did look, what he saw was enough to fuel the continuing barrage, however. "New hairstyle: wearing it pinned up to look more professional, no doubt for your interviews, but the cheap hair decoration you've used to secure it brings the tone down, as do the earrings, which are old. Gotten from Oxfam? Pink cubic zirconiums? Really? Someday you are going to have to pay for a makeover; you still dress like Brixton, especially when you're trying not to. You're living frugally these days: egg salad sandwich—look sharp, you've got some salad on your collar and crumbs down your front —and an orange, I can smell the peel all the way over here, though it's an improvement on your scent, which is also pure Brixton. Did Mrs. Hudson recommend it? It's one of her favorites; you smell just like her." She stood as though frozen, staring at him, a bunny rabbit caught in oncoming headlights, eyes wide. "Well? The bodies? Don't keep me waiting! I'm bored, Molly,  _bored!_ "

It was the first time he'd actually seen her since his return, rather than texting, and it disturbed him how remarkably comforting he found her familiar face, here in this familiar place, with the two of them playing out their familiar roles.

She blinked, slowly, eyes remaining closed longer than a mere blink demanded. She swallowed once, hard. When she opened her eyes, they were empty, and she smiled a smile that would have gotten her hired as a clothing-store mannequin in a shaved second. "It's good to see you, too, Sherlock. The bodies are in the other room. No damage, please: they've got to go to the mortuary later today, and at least one's intended for open-casket viewing. Be kind—if you know how. Don't maul anything more than you already have. If you need me I'll be in my office." Not waiting for a response, she turned, with clockwork precision, and walked sedately to her office. Only the slightly-too-firm closing of the door gave away her mood.

He reviewed what he'd said—all of it correct, all of it demonstrating an interest in her that he'd have thought she'd find flattering, if anything. Wasn't it? It wasn't like the Christmas he didn't want to think about, when he could see he'd been quite horrible.

It wasn't like that Christmas—was it?

He scowled. And what if it was? He was tired of trying to renew contact with people who clearly didn't like him half so much as he'd though. At least there were corpses to examine…an ever present help in times of trouble. He stalked into the rooms with the autopsy tables and proceeded to pace, peer, prod, and poke—though he was actually quite careful to leave no signs of molestation to indicate he'd been less than…kind. Not that he'd admit he was making any sort of effort, of course.

He was just finishing with the second body when his phone vibrated.

_Sherlock? It's me, Molly._

_Yes, Molly?_ He almost typed in a teasing, goading, "Do you want to apologize?" but found he couldn't, for fear he'd join his deceased companions on a slab. Or, worse, that he wouldn't, but that Molly would close more than her office door on him.

_Look, I'm sorry I walked out on you. But I thought I could do this. I thought I could deal with you when you're being…you. I know you're not going to change, but I thought I could. I thought I had. But I can't._ His phone signaled each new message coming in, as she continued,  _I've been doing a lot of thinking since you went. I thought I could deal with you coming in and tearing every detail of my workplace apart, and then me. But I can't. It just turns into you telling me I'm a puffed up little chav from Brixton with no taste, messy eating habits, and stinky perfume._

Ah. It was a revelation of sorts…he often didn't hear what he said through his victims' ears. It was educational to hear it graphically reinterpreted for the help of empathy-impaired.

_I didn't mean it that way._

After a long delay, she sent,  _I almost said "you never do," but I'd be lying. But, no. I don't think you did mean it, this time. That doesn't mean that isn't how it comes across. The thing is, Sherlock, if I can't deal with it—I can't see you. I can't risk letting you do what you do, only have it be about medical school, or trying to learn how to fit into a new social group that's more high-class than I am, and I can't…I can't be with you, because even when you don't mean it, it hurts, and messes me up. Do you understand?_

He watched the series of messages spool up his screen with a sinking feeling.

_I understand._

And that was the real hell: he did understand—maybe better than ever before, after weeks of boredom and loneliness and the cold wind of his friends' anger. And he wasn't stupid: he was arrogant, and far more likely to evaluate people from the outside, with focus on sentiment-free analysis, than to try to deduce their inner feelings. Indeed, much of the time he despised those feelings…though not always. But he wasn't stupid, or even indifferent to those inner lives. He could understand when he made the effort.

_Good, Sherlock. I'm sorry. You're a great man. I just have to start taking care of myself, or I'm going to go back to being nothing—only this time I'll know how much of it I did to myself._

_I understand._

He couldn't bring himself to type in, "I wish you the best, Molly Hooper." Or even, "You'll always count."

He licked his lips and returned his phone to his pocket, noticing his hands were shaking. He made himself return to the internal organs in a plastic bin on the lab table, already weighed and waiting to be neatly returned to the corpse before burial. He studied the tumors riddling the liver of the deceased. It would not have been a pleasant death. Ten minutes later he was still staring at the same liver, thinking the same thing again, as his mind looped, stuck in place.

He should not have come in. They'd been doing well, texting. She'd been glad he was back—the only person in all England of whom he was certain that was true. As long as it had just been words on the screen, they'd been fine.

Oh.

He had his phone out as fast as a gunslinger drawing a six-shooter.

_Molly! Did you have any trouble telling me that in text?_

He waited, imagining her getting her phone out of her pocket, reading the text, thinking about it, responding. It seemed to take forever.

_No. But, Sherlock, I don't think I want to be your text-pal. Sorry._

_No, no, that would be silly,_ he typed back—though, in fact, he'd actually been planning on that option. But if Molly didn't want to be his text-pal, he'd come up with another answer. Fast. He scowled, thinking….

As he thought, she typed, back a simple  _?_

_Molly, get up, keep walking, and keep texting. Come to the autopsy room._

He could almost hear the mental shout when he got her next  _?!_

He could hear her feet coming down the corridor as he typed,  _Just push through the door. Keep looking at the screen. Good, good, that's right, come on in. No, don't look up. Can you keep texting?_

She laughed, and he watched with a sense of relief as her body relaxed. She was grinning as she typed back,  _Yes, Sherlock, but I feel really stupid—and don't say it, or I'm walking back out._

_I won't even text it, Molly Hooper._

_Thank you._

_No. Thank you. First: I am sorry. I did not mean to insult you._

_I know. You usually don't…or you hope that clever and funny rates higher than polite._

_A precise evaluation, unfortunately. You know my methods, Molly. Which leads to my second statement: You were right. I am unlikely to change…which means you risk being hurt when dealing with me._

_Yeah. And I don't know how to stop caring, especially when you're saying everything I'm afraid is true._

_What are you afraid is true, Molly?_

_That I'm stupid, and plain, and tasteless, and tactless, and not very interesting, and that I ought to just keep my mouth shut, and my head down, and accept I'm a Brixton girl who should have gotten pregnant at seventeen and married at twenty and divorced at twenty-two, and live between the dole and a day job ringing customers out at a cash register._

_None of which is true except that you come from Brixton. And you do need to learn to dress for and function in a new social setting. Molly—you can look up, now. Please?_

He could see her waver. He could see detail after detail, the usual tidal wave of input that never ended, but this time, for once, it came with an actual emotional context. He knew how to evaluate it—at least a bit. When her eyes met his, he could see what it cost her.

"If you have to walk away, or close the door, or end the friendship, I do understand," he said, trying to remain calm…and having to work at it, as he'd had to work to talk to her the night of his death. "But if you can say all that to me with me right here, just by using text, and if you know I can read it and understand, perhaps we can find a way to make friendship work after all? Even without text?"

She worried her lower lip in her teeth, brow furrowed as she considered. Then, fear slowly fading, she nodded. "I…think we might be able to do that." She took a deep breath, set her shoulders like a soldier preparing to march, and added, "Sherlock, I'm sorry, too. I really thought I could just let you be you and not care, and I'm sorry I failed."

"You didn't fail. If all I could be was my observations and deductions, it would be different. The real trouble is that I can be…better than that, and seldom bother. And you know it. That's why it hurts, isn't it?"

"Yes," she agreed.

He barely held back a shiver, as he realized her answer was serious because she knew he needed a serious answer—that he really wasn't sure his guess was right. "I…don't always understand what people are feeling," he said, feeling almost unendurably raw and revealed. "I see the details, and can even deduce the pattern and identify it. It just…"

"…isn't real to you, without a bit of help sometimes."

"Yes."

She thought about it for the longest time. Then she gave a business-like little nod, put her cell phone back in her pocket, and walked calmly across the floor toward him. She reached up to grab the collar of his shirt, pulled him down, and placed one kiss on his cheek before letting go and stepping back. "Thank you, Sherlock Holmes," she said, before turning to the liver in its bin. "Nasty case of heptacellular carcinoma, isn't it?" she asked.

Sherlock's life was indeed unsettled; deeply, irrevocably unsettled. But at least he was no longer entirely alone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Thirty degrees Celsius – eighty-six degrees Fahrenheit.


	6. Kith nor Kin in England

_How's the party, Molly?_  Nigel-from-the-lab texted her.  _Sherlock throwing a big bash?_

_Worst. Par-tay. EVAR!_ she texted back.  _No one's talking to Sherlock, so Sherlock's doing monologues._

_Ow-ow-ow! You should have stayed here. Kemper came as Harry Potter, and he keeps poking Miss Travis from Oncology on the bottom with his wand._

_Gosh. Sounds like fun,_ she typed, _But I'm better off here. They may need someone who's able to call in the ambulance if the rest of this lot decides it's worth the prison time to kill Sherlock. OMG, he just offered to tell how he first met Greg Lestrade. Greg hates this story—and he's quite right, too. Sherlock always makes him sound like a perfect ass. Laters._ Thinking on her feet she moved closer to Sherlock, handed him her glass, and said firmly, "We've heard that one, Sherlock. Be a dear and get me a refill?"

For a half a second anger flared in Sherlock's eyes, and she prepared for him to round on her. She made herself meet that hard gaze, chin up and unflinching, waiting to see if what she'd come to think of as "the moment" happened again.

It did. There was a split second of bewilderment, as fast as a shooting star, and then his eyes were questioning her, and his head cocked slightly. He took her glass and leaned close, murmuring, "Saving me from my own mistakes again?"

"Someone has to," she murmured back, then turned and smiled at Greg Lestrade. "It's good to see you here, and I like your new friend. She's got brains."

"That, too," Lestrade said, glancing across the room to where his date was chattering with Mary Marston. "Met her through John and Mary. Cut above my usual. Keep worrying I'm too Non-U for her. But so far she  _doesn't_  seem to mind if I swallow my Ts every so often."

She liked Greg Lestrade. She might even have more than liked him, if it weren't for liking Sherlock…and she was beginning to think that she'd finally come far enough to choose someone else if she wanted to. Not just to show herself she could, and because she was desperate to believe someone could want her, the way she had with Jim Moriarty, either. Now she could choose because whatever she and Sherlock had between them, it was less and less the one-sided infatuation it had once been. Sherlock called it "friendship," when he could be brought to call it anything at all. Molly was willing to settle for that word. It seemed right. Still, if Greg hadn't just found a very admirable new date, she'd have been tempted to at least try to get his attention.

He seemed as impressed with her. "You're looking really good tonight, Molly. I don't know what it is, but—"

"It's three weeks working with a friend of Sherlock's brother, Mycroft. If I understand what they've told me, she's someone's aunt's sister-in-law. Really nice lady who's dragged me around to Oxfam to buy up all the nice things that Town and County give to charity to help us little people. Would you believe I've got a genuine Emilia Wickstead in my closet?"

He grinned. "Does that mean you've committed a theft, a kidnap, or just vice?"

"I think five counts of social-climbing in the first degree. Oh, thank you, Sherlock. I appreciate it. Oh, look, Mrs. Hudson's back with more beer. Give her a hand."

Sherlock pouted. "I'm the host."

"That's why you give her a hand, Sherlock. Let the guests enjoy the food and the booze, and you do what a host does and make that easy for them."

"Somehow I thought socializing and entertaining was supposed to be part of it, too," he growled.

"Not when it's—oof," Lestrade said, not prepared for her foot to come down on his.

"Later, when they're relaxed," Molly said, and watched as Sherlock dubiously went to help his landlady with her bags of beer and ale.

"Sonofa—what was  _that?_ " Lestrade hissed at her, looking at her like she'd grown antennae. Well, she did have antennae: her one concession to Halloween was a headband with fairy-feelers twiddling on top. But it wasn't the fairy-feelers he was staring at.

She shrugged. "He just wants to do it right. I'm helping."

His eyes narrowed, and the look he shot her reminded her he was a D.I. He probably interrogated people like her as warm-up scales in the morning, before he took on the serious criminals. "You're helping—and he's  _listening._ What have you injected into him, Molly Hooper? Whatever it is, the street-value per ounce has to be way up there."

She reviewed the possible things she could say…none of which were really satisfying. At last she shrugged and said, "It's just the new normal. If you want to know more, wait till you can talk to Mrs. Hudson alone. She's got  _theories._ Don't tell me anything she says, though. I'm afraid if I ever have a theory I'll jinx it, like the centipede thinking about how it walks."

With Sherlock being kept busy, the party was beginning to thaw, at least a little. John was avoiding talking to his former roommate any more than he had to, but everyone else had decided to play nice with Sherlock, so long as Sherlock played nice with them. It wasn't a great party, but it was at least not the Cold War Molly had really feared. Yes, Sherlock kept checking his laptop—but he was Sherlock, after all, and at least he got back up regularly and made an effort. She was relaxing, beginning to enjoy the music and the group conversation about the upcoming Avenger's movie—she, Mrs. Hudson and Mary Marston were all hot for Robert Downey Jr and Tom Hiddleston, while Lestrade's date was yearning for Chris Hemsworth, when Sherlock's phone rang.

"Yes, what? What? Hang on, I'm at a party—I can't hear you. You'll have to say that louder. Wha—" Sherlock's voice went from over-loud, as he tried to project over a classical piece he had playing, to sudden, stunned silence. Everyone looked at him, riveted as his face went from its usual intense focus to blank shock—and then ricocheted to anger in an instant. "What kind of joke is this? Who's calling? What? What? No. I don't understand. Who  _is_ this?" He turned to John, eyes bewildered, breaking from the phone to say, "He says he's a Dr. Lund, at the Royal Marsden ICU, John. Have you heard of him?"

John's brow furrowed. "Not my area, but—what's wrong?"

"He says…" Sherlock's voice went thin. "He says Mycroft's dying and he needs permission to extend treatment. Only it's…It can't be. No one dies of chickenpox, do they? It has to be a prank. It's Halloween." He sounded angry and edgy…and surprisingly young.

John's face went tense. "Give me the phone, Sherlock. Let me talk to him. Yes-yes, I know, just give me the phone." Grabbing it, he seated himself at Sherlock's laptop, trapped the phone between his shoulder and ear, and began typing and talking at the same time. "Hello, Dr. Lund? This is Dr. John Watson, a friend of Sherlock's. I think maybe you need me to act as translator for a few minutes…Sherlock's convinced this is someone's idea of a Halloween prank. You say you're attending Mycroft Holmes, at the Royal Marsden ICU? Yes. Yes. Just a moment…. Sherlock, take the phone and confirm you're you, and I'm me, and that I have permission to consult with Lund—no, Sherlock, you've got to give the poor bastard some kind of legal fig leaf to cover his ass before he can tell me anything."

As John bounced between Sherlock, the laptop, and the phone, Molly pulled out her own phone.  _Nigel? Nigel? Are you there?_

_Depends on what you mean by "there," Moll. In the immortal words of the sixties, I'm definitely where it's at, for sure. Hey, did I tell you I wore a sixties costume tonight?_

_Yeah, but I need you to do something for me. Can you get at the interhospital database?_

_Um…Yeah. I think so._

_Ok. I need you to do a couple searches. First check if there's a Dr. Lund at the Royal Marsden—and see if anything pops, okay?_

The wait seemed eternal, and meanwhile Sherlock was saying unnaturally calm, precise things on the phone in Sherlockish, rigid phrasing, as though his voice could cross every T and dot every i.

_Yeah, Molly. Internist of some kind? Infectious diseases._

_Okay. Now, I need you to break the rules, Nige. See if you can find out if the Royal's got a Mycroft Holmes in the ICU._

_Moll, I can't do that._

_I said, break the rules, Nige. This is important._

_No, you don't get it. I can't. It's not the rules, or even that I don't have a high enough clearance to do it – I don't know how. I'm a med tech, not a hacker. And I'm drunk._

She was about to tell him she'd call and walk him through it when John's voice grabbed her attention, forcing it back to his own efforts.

"Bugger. Okay, okay, I follow. Adult onset varicella zoster, Oka variant strain, followed by pneumonia, and that one is definitely a resistant strain. What've you tried so far? Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Shit. Uh-huh. Yeah. Okay. I'll talk to him. Should we call back, or come straight over. Straight over? Ah. Talk on the way. I see. All right. We'll see you over there."

The man who handed Sherlock's phone back was, bone-deep, a doctor, a soldier, and a ranking officer. Tension sparked on him like St. Elmo's fire, but his attention was on Sherlock.

"It's not a joke. Mycroft's been in hospital for a week. He went in with adult onset chickenpox, contracted a hospital strain of pneumonia, and has been slipping downhill ever since. He went into a coma a half an hour ago, and you're his next of kin. He wouldn't let them contact you before this, but now you're the only person they've got to sign papers and make decisions…right up till the DNR cuts in and it's all back in Mycroft's hands. We're going over there so you can sign the paperwork…and because he may not hang on much longer."

"Chickenpox?" Sherlock said, shaking his head in frustrated disbelief. "He  _had_ chickenpox. We both did. Covered with it. He can't have chickenpox."

"Sherlock, they've tested for it…it's chickenpox. It's Oka strain, and that may be the problem: it slips past immunization, sometimes. But—have you been immunized?"

Sherlock was not using his "inside voice" any more. "John, please listen. I told you: I've  _had_ chickenpox. Of course I haven't been immunized."

"Then you're going to go in masked, until they're sure you're not going to get it either."

"But we  _had_ it."

"And Mycroft's infected. Sherlock, just shut up and get your coat. Mary and I will take you over."

"I'll meet you there," Molly murmured. "One more person to translate for Sherlock."

"Or translate Sherlock for them, poor things," Mrs. Hudson said. "You go on, now. I'll stay here and clean up the party. "

At the side of the room Molly could hear Greg and his date murmuring. Her voice, puzzled and frustrated, rose, asking, "But I don't understand. How could he not even know his brother was in hospital?"

"Shhh. Laurie, you've met Sherlock. All I can tell you is Mycroft is worse. I mean, I've only met him a few times, but I promise: Mycroft is worse. The big question is how his own doctor got clearance to know he was sick. I would have thought it would take a month to jump through the bureaucratic hoops."

The drive over in the taxi was cold and lonely. Molly wondered if she should have stayed with Mrs. Hudson, or gone home, the way she would have before Sherlock died and returned…or she wondered until the phone pinged.

_Molly, this is crazy. John keeps talking like Mycroft is dying._

_Sherlock, if he picked up a strain he wasn't immune to—adult onset chickenpox is serious, pneumonia is worse, and a resistant strain of pneumonia is really bad. John may be right._

_But he can't be. He's Mycroft. The government won't LET him die._

_Everyone dies, Sherlock._

It was a long time before he responded, and then he said only,  _Will you be over there?_

_Yes. Have John text me where they take you, and I'll meet you there._

_I want John to be able to pay attention to Mycroft and the doctor._

_Good choice._

_I want you to pay attention to John. Someone's got to make sure he's not missing something._

_He won't miss anything, Sherlock. But I'll listen and help you keep track._

_How can he have chickenpox? We had chickenpox, Molly. Full up with it. Spots everywhere. We itched for a week. Mycroft put calomel on my back and made up riddles to keep me quiet, because Nurse was with Mummy._

_Did she have it, too? Poor thing._

_No. Father died the week before, and she was…upset. She wanted Nurse. Nurse sang her nursery songs, like when she was little._

_I see. So…Mycroft took care of you?_

_When Nurse was busy. We went to stay with Aunt Freya for the first few days. Then came home. Mycroft took care of me._

_I see._

_He's strong. Mycroft's stong, Molly._

Molly had heard enough people say that over her years working in hospitals to know it really meant, "He'll live, won't he?" She said what she'd learned to say.

_They'll do the best they can, Sherlock. I promise. They'll do the best they can._

_Everybody dies. He said that, once. All lives end. All hearts are broken._

_Yes. He's a smart man, Sherlock._

_I know. Smarter than me. It's just sometimes I wish he weren't._


	7. The Speckled Hand

The exchange between Mycroft Holmes' administrative assistant and Mycroft's brother was of gladiatorial intensity. A clever entrepreneur could have sold tickets. Unfortunately, no such sales had occurred. Only John Watson and Molly Hooper had the privilege of watching the event—and both were long-since accustomed to Sherlock's duels. They huddled against one wall of the room, mainly trying to stay out of the line of fire.

"Mr. Holmes did not want you involved, Mr…..Holmes." Mycroft's assistant smiled a bland, sugar-and-cream smile, clearly expecting that claim to resolve things.

"Of course he didn't," Sherlock replied. "If he'd wanted me involved he'd have immediately contacted me and ordered me to keep out of it. After all, he knows me." He was, even more than usual, a sculpture in arrogance, standing tall, head high, coat shouting, "I'm so cool only Neil Gaiman could describe me—and then only on a good day."

The look the assistant shot Sherlock was toxic. "So nice to see that kind of bond between brothers," he said, "I'm sure it saves you both quite a lot of misunderstanding. Now that that's settled, if you could please sign over power of attorney to us, we can finish this all up."

"No."

Mycroft's assistant had the harried look of a man who had found one Holmes brother to be a serious career challenge, and two to be a crashing professional debacle that had the potential to give him bragging rights in an elite club consisting of the captain of the Exxon  _Valdez_ , the manager of the Fukushima nuclear plant, "Way-to-Go Blackie" of Hurricane Katrina notoriety, and all the many damn-fool military strategists over the centuries who'd looked at Afghanistan and assured their nations' leaders it was a piece of cake. "Mr. Holmes, I assure you, this is what your brother would want."

"Are you sure Mycroft chose you for this position?" Sherlock asked, peering intently at the prim bureaucrat sitting behind the desk in the office the hospital had lent him.

He frowned back at his superior's brother. "Yes, of course. Why?"

"He must have chosen you for your bovine predictability...nothing else explains it. Need I repeat what I said previously?"

"Er…"

Sherlock sighed gustily, and rolled his eyes. "No wonder Mycroft's always overworked. I told you—if Mycroft had wanted me to be involved, he'd have told me to stay out of it. What does that tell you about our relationship, Mr…?"

"Beemish. And it tells me, Mr. Holmes, that you are given to defying your brother."

"Yes. And?" Sherlock said, encouragingly. When the penny failed to drop he gave a melodramatic groan. "Mr. Beemish, you've gone about this all wrong. If you had wanted me to sign over power of attorney, you really should have told me Mycroft  _did_  want me to serve in that role—indeed, that he demanded it. As it is? Frankly, this entire situation is just too much of a temptation. So I'm sorry, but I shall retain control over my brother's health and well-being for now." He spun in graceful slow motion and moved to open the office door.

"Wait, Mr. Holmes!"

Sherlock seemed almost frozen, barring a curious cock to his head. "Waiting. You have something to say?"

"Her Majesty will take action, if necessary."

"I doubt it, Mr. Beemish. Her Majesty is cautious in her use of power, and I doubt she'd interfere with a private legal matter. I find it interesting that you were willing to make that threat, though. What  _is_ going on? And please, don't say 'chickenpox.' I assure you, Mycroft and I both  _had_ chickenpox."

"It  _is_  chickenpox _,_  damn you," Beemish said, temper breaking like waves against the stony cliffs of Sherlock. "I wish it  _wasn't_ chickenpox. I might be able to  _do_ something if it weren't chickenpox. For the love of God, Mr. Holmes, would you please cooperate? Your brother is a very important man, and this is a matter of national—no,  _international_ importance. We need Mycroft Holmes to live."

Sherlock turned back, then, and asked, very quietly, "And if Mycroft needs to die? What then, Mr. Beemish? And who decides? Her Majesty? The Prime Minister? You?" When Beemish failed to answer, Sherlock nodded, eyes cold. "Yes. I thought so. No, I think I shall retain power of attorney for my brother, Mr. Beemish. Now, if I understand correctly, I'm to be inoculated." He gave an utterly false smile, chirped, "Pip-cheerio, then!" and glanced commandingly at John and Molly, drawing them into his train as he exited the dull little room with a flourish.

John and Molly raced along after his stalking figure, barely managing to keep up—John marching double-time, and Molly just plain loping to hold even. One elevator and three corridors later Sherlock finally came to a halt—suddenly, without warning, in the middle of an empty waiting area. John and Molly just barely managed to avoid crashing into him.

Sherlock seemed to draw in on himself. "Where am I going?" he asked, softly.

John and Molly exchanged concerned glances. "Down to the lab for blood work," John said. "They need to test you for varicella, and they're going to give you an immunization."

"And the lab is where?"

"I'll show him," Molly said to John. "My first job was here at the Royal. I know my way around. You see if you can find Dr. Lund and learn anymore, so you can prepare Sherlock for him."

"Prepare him for Sherlock, more like." John grumbled. He grimaced at his friend and former flat mate. "Do you really have to act like a porcupine all the time? You're just making things harder, you know."

"Your confidence in my abilities never ceases to amaze me," Sherlock replied in an arid voice. His heart clearly wasn't in it, though. He'd roused to do battle with Beemish, but with no victim to bait and harry the energy seemed to seep out of him.

Molly and John hesitated a moment, sharing the sort of worried, telepathic looks parents share over a sick, cranky child. It was clear that neither was sure what to do to help. At last Molly shrugged. "Let's go, then, Sherlock. There's an elevator down the corridor on your left. John, you've got my mobile number. Let me know if there's any change."

"Will do, Molly. Sherlock, please don't bully Molly or the nurses? Just let them take the blood sample and give you the shot, so we can get on with all this."

Sherlock did rouse slightly at this, proclaiming, "I do not bully Molly!"

"Yes, you do," John with amused exasperation.

"No, I do not."

"Molly, just take him, will you?"

"Molly, tell him I don't bully you, or I'll tell him—"

"See," John said, cutting him off. "There you go again. Molly, you're a saint. Sherlock—just shut up, please, and go get your shot. We don't want both you and Mycroft sick."

Sherlock grumbled most of the way down to the haematology lab, where a nurse was waiting with sampling tubes and a varicella immunization shot.

"Coat off, shirt off, hospital smock on. I'll have to take your vitals first, too." The nurse was calmly prepping, drawing over an old-fashioned blood pressure cuff, a new-style thermometer, and a tray with phlebotomy sampling needles, sampling tubes, a length of rubber tubing, and the injection.

"I am not getting undressed," Sherlock said, with the outraged resistance of a middle-school boy being forced to undress before mere females.

"Sherlock…"

"I am not getting undressed," he said again, more firmly.

"She's got to draw from a vein," Molly assured him. "And the shot's intramuscular. Sherlock, you know this sort of thing. You're in St. Barts at least once a week, and I know you read the journals…"

"For things that impact my cases!" he protested. "And I'm not 'in St. Barts.' I'm in the morgue. There's a difference."

The nurse was getting frustrated. "Mr. Holmes, I was called in here on my evening off just to deal with you. Apparently you're  _special._ " It was very clear that being special did not rate high in her books. "If you can't cooperate with a simple blood test and take a shot, I'm wasting time I could be spending re-watching  _Downton Abbey."_

In answer Sherlock merely hunched deeper in his coat, practically tucking his hands into his sleeves."

"I can do it," Molly said, quietly, looking at the nurse. "I've done it before. Just leave it all and I'll take care of it."

"Can't do it," the nurse snapped back. "My signature has to go on there, and I need to be the one who signs it off on the lab pick-up." She gave Sherlock a very ancient look, and continued, "They're even sending someone special to pick up the sample."

"I'll do it for Molly," Sherlock said, still sounding like a sullen tweenie boy.

"Maybe if you stay here and watch?"

"She can't watch," Sherlock grumbled. "She can come back when you're done."

Molly sighed, and pulled the nurse over to one side of the room. "He's going to keep us here all night if we don't play along," she said under her breath. "Look, let me do the job—then you can check it all and sign off on it. The thing is, it's got to be done, and it's got to be done fast. I'm guessing they're going to rush through the testing, and they're not going to want to wait."

"It's just a varicella titer," the nurse said. "I mean, really. Just a chickenpox-immune…and he's getting the shot, for goodness sake."

"He's getting the shot  _if he lets us_. We need him to cooperate. Unless you want to be the one chasing him around trying to make him take off that coat. Look, they've got bloody Whitehall people grinding their teeth over this."

The nurse growled a frustrated little growl, deep in her throat. "Oh, for the love of…all right. If you think you can get him to behave, I'll go down the way and have a cuppa. I'll be back in about ten minutes, and…well, if you've got it done, we can both sign off on it. That way no harm, no foul." She shot a final glare at Sherlock, and left the room.

"Well played, Molly," Sherlock said, darting toward the supplies laid out for use. "Here, help me—I need to know if all this is clean or if someone's tampered with it."

"It's all sealed, Sherlock," Molly said with some frustration of her own, as she joined him at the counter. "Needles, sample tubes, even the shot. It's fresh from the factory. If it has been meddled with I won't know."

"Damn." Sherlock looked around the room, eyes leaping from item to item. "I can't risk it. Will there be spares?"

"I should think so," she replied. "This  _is_  their blood-work lab. I'm less sure of the immunization."

"Look— _Look._ Try to find spares of everything—if you can, find enough sample tubes for duplicates. I want to have this tested myself. I don't trust Mr. Beemish and his friends not to fix the game."

She went through the lab like a whirlwind, eventually managing to collect a complete set of the needed tools. "We're running out of time. Coat off, shirt off, and if you give me trouble it's on your head, not mine."

It was the set-up for any number of possible scenes—if they'd been in a romance novel or a filmed rom-com. As it was, she barely noticed Sherlock stripping rapidly out of coat and shirt. She was too busy setting out her own duplicate tools in order.

"Ok, blood pressure first—"

"One-seventeen over seventy-seven."

"Did you take your own?"

"No, we're not bothering. No time."

She nodded. "All right. All right. If you say so." She slipped the tubing around his upper arm, and they quickly waltzed through the rituals, ending up with two sample tubes for varicella testing. A second later she'd pushed the plunger home on the immunization. "Done."

"Try to set things up so she won't know we made substitutions," Sherlock said, already buttoning up his shirt.

"Already thought of it," she assured him, as she put things away in their proper places. "So—what are you worried about?"

"I don't know." The annoyance in his voice was potent. "I just know that something is wrong. Mycroft and I had chickenpox."

"Some cases are misdiagnosed. Some people don't get full immunity. Stuff happens."

He grunted an agreement that was utterly unconvinced. "Or this could all be some form of game. Given the circles Mycroft plays in, that's a more likely answer than chickenpox. At least—it's more likely than ordinary chickenpox."

She frowned, then, leaning back against the counter as they waited for the nurse's return. "You think someone's infected your brother with something weird?"

"Weird, altered, manipulated. Anything and everything. If you can imagine it, someone's doing it somewhere. Mycroft plays with some very rough competitors, in a very big arena. Molly, slip those samples in your pocket and have them run over at St. Barts. Remember—I want results I can trust. Oh-how long does it take the immunization to work?"

"I doubt anyone would trust it much sooner than three days. A week would be more certain. They're going to make you dress like you're in a plague zone until then." She looked at him, curious. "Sherlock, did you know I could do all this myself? I mean, most of the morgue techs couldn't, you know."

In answer he shifted to his drown-'em-with-facts voice. "Molly Hooper, graduated with a BSc in nursing from the Florence Nightingale School of Nursing and Midwifery, City University of London, 2001."

"You deduced that?"

"No. I read it on your diploma in your office—five years ago. It's not magic, Molly, it's observation. You don't hide your degree. I know the certificates you've earned, too."

"So you knew I could take over for the nurse."

"I was counting on it."

"What if I'd missed the cue? Or if she'd refused to let me?"

"I'd have done something else. Now, when we're done here, I want you to go directly to St. Barts. I want that test done, and I want the answer as soon as possible. Lives may depend upon it—including mine."

She nodded. "By the way... Why me? Why not John? He could have done all this with less risk. People don't argue with a medical degree."

"Because, I need John elsewhere—dealing with Dr. Lund, dealing with Mycroft's people, dealing with the hospital. And…because, Molly Hooper, sometimes a lion can be helped by even a mouse."

"Squeak," she said, smiling…then turned to greet the returning nurse.

Sherlock walked alone back to the ICU ward. Even with John doing everything possible to smooth the way, it was almost another hour before Sherlock stood in Mycroft's room at last, shrouded in a singularly hideous quarantine coverall, with his hands encased In surgical gloves and his nose and mouth protected with a surgical mask.

He'd been running on nerves, anger, and adrenaline up until then. He looked at Mycroft's body. His brother was not dead, but also not entirely among the living. He was flaccid and limp, propped into a sitting position to improve his breathing, with IVs running into his veins, and sensors gummed to his chest. His skin was covered with entire flocks of crusted sores. He seemed stripped of his dignity, as completely stripped as he was stripped of his bespoke suits and hand-made shoes. Sherlock observed that even Mycroft's capacity for regal authority could not survive an ugly hospital gown, unkempt hair, and unconsciousness.

He took a step closer to the bedside, ignoring the bodyguard posted at the side of the room, who reached inconspicuously for his weapon, just in case. Another step brought him to the bed itself. He leaned against the metal rails put up to ensure Mycroft couldn't fall out of bed. He took his brother's right hand. It lay in his own, limp and oddly fragile. An IV needle was inserted into the vein on the back of his hand, and taped down to keep it stable. His brother was in his late forties, pushing ever closer to fifty; even in health, his hands showed the first spattering of age marks. Now Sherlock couldn't even see those for the pox-spots that marred Mycroft's skin.

"His ring," Sherlock said to no one in particular. "Where's his ring?"

"They'll have had him take it off when they knew they might need to be doing a lot of work on him. They'll have it put it away for him—probably locked up for safe keeping." It was John who answered. Sherlock hadn't even fully realized John had come in with him—which was unheard of. It hadn't been as important as observing Mycroft.

Sherlock looked at his brother's hand. It had obviously been mere hours since he had been aware and awake. His hands were clean, even with the spots that covered them. The nails were perfectly manicured. His brother kept himself immaculately—and that only made the spots stand out more clearly.

"What do you need me to do," he asked the room.

"He may be able to hear you –but he won't respond," came Dr. Lund's deep voice from the doorway.

"I wasn't speaking to him," Sherlock said, without turning. "I was speaking to you. You have had me brought here for my brother's sake. What do you need me to do?"

"I need you to give us permission for a variety of life-support treatments. Nothing that traps you or your brother: he and I had time to review his wishes, but he was willing to have us put in a drainage tube to help clear his lungs. We'd also like to put in a feeding tube and catheterize him. Those are the main things."

Sherlock nodded, silently. He put Mycroft's hand carefully back on the mattress, taking a moment to push the IV tubing to one side to ensure Mycroft wasn't tangled in it. He turned to face Lund, sensing more than seeing John move into place at his side as though he were a battle companion guarding his flank. He met Lund's eyes.

"Very well. I'll sign."

 


	8. The Cardboard Box

Molly sighed and rubbed her eyes, studying the results of Sherlock's varicella titers again. They weren't what she'd expected or hoped. After a few minutes she powered up her phone and typed in a text.

_John? You free right now?_

_Free enough. What's wrong?_

_Nothing's wrong…I think. Can you get Mycroft's viral analysis? Bacterial analysis too, if you can._

_Probably? Why?_

She thought about it, and reluctantly decided that she wasn't ready to try to explain, yet—or to send her guesses in text.  _I'd rather not say, yet._

_Are Sherlock's immunity tests done?_

_Yes. Tests are negative. Not immune._

_Good thing we made him get the shot._

_Good he wore the full monty* hazmat. Make him keep it till we know the shot took._

_Understood._

She considered signing out—and decided it would be cowardice. If the answer to her next question was bad, trying to ignore it wouldn't make it better. _How's Mycroft?_

The response was quick and terse.

_Shunt's helping. No other changes._

_How's Sherlock?_

_Pulled in. Using everyone for dart practice._

_Okay. Have to go. Tell Sherlock he's not immune._

_You don't want to tell him?_

She shuddered at the thought. Even now she wilted when Sherlock was at his worst.  _When he's using people for dart practice? He'll go mental. You do it._

_Lucky me. D:_

_Get revenge on him for the past few years?_

_LOL! You're not quite as sweet as you seem._

_Yes I am. I'm totally wet in person. It's just easier to be a nasty cow in text. Got to go. CU later. PLEASE, let me know what you learn about M's v &b analysis._

_OK. Bye._

Molly turned off her phone, set it aside, and pulled out the results from Sherlock's varicella tests again. There was no sign of immunity—none. It could have been used as a benchmark standard for immunity-free.

Nigel stuck his head in her office door, looking very much the worse for wear. "Oi, Moll—you got any aspirin? I have such a head this morning, you wouldn't believe."

"I'd believe almost anything, Nige. Who was last-man-standing at the party last night?"

"Dunno. Wasn't me. And Kemper folded before I did. May have been Sheila from MRI. How'd Sherlock's party turn out? Anyone kill the git?"

"Bit of a cockup, actually. He got word his brother's in hospital over at the Royal Marsden. Put a bit of a dent in the evening. Remember? I texted you?"

"Oh, yeeeeah," he said, nodding, but his hangover-enhanced frown was saying, "Wait-what?"

"Never mind," Molly said, resigning herself to the fact that Nigel, like most of her coworkers who had attended the Halloween party, was going to be flying his brains at half-mast for most of the day. She snagged the handle of her big canvas tote and rummaged around until she found a bottle. She frowned at it. "Will you use naproxen?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Heads-up: take two and call me in the morning." She tossed the bottle to him, and was impressed when he managed to catch it. "Have you ever heard of anyone getting chickenpox but not showing any trace of immunity at all afterward?"

"Mooooooll, for the love-a God. I'm a med tech. I weigh lungs and guts and examine shite for signs of parasitic diseases. That's it. You want more? You're in a hospital—go ask a doctor." He looked down, already twisting the bottle top—only to stop cold. "Hey, these are girl-aspirin!"

"Your headache, your choice. It's what I have with me." She reached across her desk and pulled over the desk phone, punching in the extension quickly. "Sue? Yes. It's Molly Hooper, down in the mortuary. Is Dr. Stamford in? Down in the canteen? Thanks—no, I'll call back if I miss him there. Laters." She dug in her tote for her wallet and rose, saying, "Tag—you're it. Watch the lab: I'm going down to the canteen to try to catch Mike Stamford. Put the Feminax back in my bag when you're done with them."

"Yeah, okay," Nigel grumbled, then, as she scurried out the lab door, he shouted, "Hey, get me a bag of crisps while you're there!"Molly didn't even bother calling back.

Molly bought a coffee and an orange for herself, and a bag of wasabi crisps for Nigel, then slipped quietly into the dining area of the canteen. It didn't take her long to find Mike Stamford. He was a big man with a cheerful presence and no inclination to hide himself. He'd occupied a round table under windows looking out over the inner campus, and was drinking a cup of coffee and munching a cheese sandwich.

For all he was a familiar face and a nice man, Molly still felt a bit shy of him. Ordinary doctors she dealt with daily, and had done for years; from her first student nursing assignment on she'd run the gantlet of the profession. Mike, however, was one of St. Barts' teaching doctors, and according to gossip he was among the best. She'd been too intimidated to even ask him for a recommendation for fear he'd think she was trying to play "not what you know but who you know" games trying to get into St. Bart's. She cleared her throat, tentatively. "Mike?"

He looked up and smiled—genial, as always. "Molly! What are you doing out of your morgue? If I'd known you could be lured away I'd have invited you for coffee long since. " He studied her, and shook his head. "You're the first person from Kemper's group I've seen today who doesn't look hung over. Tired—but not done to a turn."

She gave a hesitant smile. "I didn't go to the same Halloween party they did. It makes a difference."

"What, you mean you didn't get pissed at the party and finish up with a Halloween pub-crawl?"

"I went to a private party and finished up with a Halloween hospital crawl." She took a breath. "You know Sherlock's back?"

Stamford suddenly looked far more serious—and not entirely happy. "Heard from John, yes." His voice left it an open question just what he'd heard from John, though to Molly's relief he did say, "It sounds like a bugger of a spot he was in…but… I don't know how he faked his death, but I can't say I appreciate what he did to John—or the reputation of St. Barts. And I've been twice as worried about the students. We lose someone to suicide every few years or so, and that sort of thing is contagious."

She really didn't want to go there. So far no one outside Sherlock's closest circle knew any of what she'd done, and she would rather it stayed that way. "Mike, Sherlock got a call last night. His brother's sick—he's in the ICU at the Royal Marsden. Adult onset varicella zoster, turned into pneumonia. They were treating it with antivirals and it was responding, but then he picked up a opportunistic resistant staph infection that kicked the pneumonia into overdrive. He may not make it."

Mike gave a sharp grunt, and swore. "Any hope?"

"Some. I texted with John about an hour ago. They've put in a pulmonary shunt and his breathing is improving. But he's in a coma and he's not in good shape. The thing is, it's a bit of a mystery how he contracted varicella in the first place. He doesn't work in the kind of place where it's all open-floor plan and you have to share germs with every kid the next cubicle-rat's kid goes to school with. And most people inoculate anyway. You hardly ever hear of a case of chickenpox. And on top of that, Sherlock swears he and Mycroft both had chickenpox as kids."

Mike shrugged. "Wrong diagnosis. Twenty-thirty years back we didn't have a vaccine yet, and chickenpox was still really common…common enough that a lot of the time if people knew it was going around and little Sean or Sheila came up with a rash or an itch they just figured their kids had got it, too. Like as not they got into a nettle-patch without realizing or something like that—nettles can raise a rash that would fool someone who already thought he knew what it was."

Molly couldn't imagine either Mycroft or Sherlock failing to realize they were in a nettle-patch, even when they were young and in the middle of a family crisis. She wondered how old they'd been. The way Sherlock had spoken of it, it had sounded as though he had been fairly young, but Mycroft was somewhere between six to ten years older than Sherlock, so nearly as she could tell. She wished she could talk to Mycroft and ask him what had happened….

Which took her right back to where it all started. No one could talk to Mycroft right now.

"Mike, there was something I wanted to ask you. You're not just a doctor—you're a teacher and a researcher, too. Have you ever heard of someone contracting chickenpox but not testing immune positive?"

"It's not common, but people do sometimes have a weak immune response."

"No. I'm not talking about a weak response. I mean have you ever heard of someone getting chickenpox but testing completely free of any kind of varicella antibodies? A completely negative titer?"

Mike's eyes slipped out of focus behind his glasses. He leaned back in his chair, wrapped his palms around his coffee cup, and made a soft humming noise as he thought about it. "Nnnnnnnnno. You don't mean someone with complete immune collapse or anything like that? No bubble-boys or the like?"

"No. Normal people living in the normal world getting normal colds and flu and scratches and scrapes and still normally healthy. Well—I mean they get normally sick and then get normally better. Just no immunity to chickenpox. None."

Mike pushed his glasses up his nose, hummed some more, drank the last of his coffee absently. At last he shook his head. "No. At least—I'm no Sherlock. I'm not going to swear there's no chance in the world it could happen. But all the ways I can see to get that result are so weird they just don't make sense, and probably wouldn't work anyway. You tell me—rumor says you want to be a doctor. What do you think?"

"I think if you have a clean titer, then you never had chickenpox. I think you're right, and someone made a misdiagnosis."

Mike nodded. "Yep. Does it matter?"

"I wish I knew. But  _I'm_  not Sherlock, either."

"That's a good thing. Sherlock would make a duff doctor. With a bit of time and a lot of work, you may make a very good one."

Even under the circumstances Molly felt cheered. "You mean it?"

"I mean it. You need to gain some confidence, but you've always had great instincts and a good mind, and you've come a long way in the past few years."

She risked a grin. "Maybe I should have asked you for a recommendation letter after all."

"Maybe you should have. But not for St. Barts." He pushed himself away from the table and rose, picking up his cup and plate, and grinning mischievously. "Conflict of interest. I'm on the Admissions Committee, here." And with that he was gone, toddling away through the canteen like a cheerful, chubby nursery toy.

The rest of the work day was slow, made even slower as fatigue finally caught up with her. By three she was ready to crawl the burning desert for a cup of tea. By four she'd started wondering whether sticking her finger in a light socket might be enough to jolt her into alertness. She and Nigel could have run a contest to see which of them sounded more fagged out. When five came she grabbed her tote, closed up the morgue, and raced home, taking just enough time to feed Toby, make a cup of instant noodles, and change into pajamas. She was asleep by eight, and she stayed asleep until six the next morning, rising feeling much better. As she drank her coffee and ate a yogurt for breakfast she texted John.

_Morning. Any news?_

_Mycroft's not any better, but he hasn't crumped, either. Sherlock's in his mind palace. The rest of us are stuck on the front line,s facing down MI5 and MI6 under the command of Beemish. Afghanistan was safer. Please bring reinforcements…and a decent cup of hot coffee. And some sausage rolls. Sherlock may not care if he never eats again, but I'm a soldier and I march on my stomach._

_Aww. ;_; I'll be by in half an hour. Can't stay long—got work. But I'll do what I can. Want muffins, too?_

_I want to marry you and have your babies. 3 3 3_

_LOL! Mary will be surprised to hear it. Reinforcements—will Mrs. Hudson do? I can't think of anyone else who doesn't have work._

_I'll take what I can get. I can weep on her shoulder and she'll be kind._

_Just remember, she's not your housekeeper. XD Laters._

Molly dressed and arranged for Mrs. Hudson to pick her up at the local café. By the time the cab pulled up she had three boxes filled with sausage rolls and hard boiled eggs, oranges and apples, and pastries, and a gallon carton of fresh-brewed café Americano. She practically fell into the back seat, with her load and her tote weighing her down.

"What's all that, then?" Mrs. Hudson asked, looking at the heap.

"Sherlock's in his mind palace and John's starving in a desert of hospital grub. He says he wants to marry me and have my babies. Best deal anyone's offered me in years."

"Tell me about it. At my age I'd be lucky to have good dreams if it weren't for the internet. Isn't technology wonderful?"

Molly was afraid to ask. There were things mankind—or at least Molly—was not meant to know, and Mrs. Hudson's online solution to the senior dating drought was among them.

The two split the load between them once they were at the Royal Marsden. They went up the elevators and down the corridor to the waiting room for the ICY, where they were greeted by a stubble-cheeked, hollow-eyed John, who descended on them like a one-man impersonation of a ravening wolf pack.

"I love you, I love you, I love you. My fiancé loves you. My future offspring love you. Oh, God. You got Eccles cakes. You are a goddess—" he broke off and glared blearily at one of the MI5/6 battalion, who approached the boxes with a hopeful look in his eye. " _Mine_ , you tosser. Back off."

The agent considered, looked forlornly at the boxes brimming with food, looked back at John, and apparently decided he wasn't certain enough of surviving the attempt. He backed off, trying to look casual.

"My goodness, John, you look a sight," Mrs. Hudson said, looking as much intrigued by the stubble and barely restrained violence as she did appalled. "How long is it since you ate last?"

"I'm not sure. I think the Blitz. Churchill was saying something about blood, sweat, and tears, and there was rationing and cabbage loaf."

"War is hell," Molly agreed, consolingly. She glanced around the waiting room. Beemish wasn't in evidence, but his men and women were everywhere, perched uneasily on waiting room chairs and benches or propping up corridor walls. They were in street-wear, which meant they looked like bankers who were licensed to kill.

Sherlock stood at the end of the waiting room, silhouetted against a plate glass window. Even from behind he looked too good to be real, she thought, a bit sadly. Some things in life just were not fair. Sherlock Holmes was one of them. Brains, wit, cheekbones, and a really great coat—and as near as she could tell he wasn't aware of the evolutionary value of any of it. No matter how far she'd come from her former infatuation, she still thought he was a wonder. Unfortunately he was a wonder who certainly wasn't spending his Darwinian capital on her.

"How long's he been like that?" she asked John, with a quick cock of her head at the stark, still figure, to underline her meaning.

"Hours," John said through a spray of Eccles cake crumbs.

"When's he going to come out of it?"

"Now," Sherlock said, with a dramatic, sweeping turn, making everyone in the room jump. "Where is Dr. Lund?"

John sighed. "Hang on. I'll text him."

"Ask him where Mycroft's things are."

While John tapped away at the phone, Sherlock casually grabbed the last Eccles cake and bit into it.

"He says he'll have an orderly bring them to you. And you stole my Eccles cake."

"You've already eaten two, John."

John glowered at him, then gave up with a sigh. "All right, all right. Fine. 'How ever did you know that, Sherlock! That's amazing!'"

"You know my method. It's founded on the observation of trifles—or in this case, the observation of Eccles cakes. Consider: The pastries Molly has bought are all in groups of three: three bran muffins, three fairy cakes, three cheese Danish…but only this one last Eccles cake! Further, I know your fondness for Eccles cakes, and that you are capable of eating one Eccles cake per five minutes while drinking coffee and conversing at table. I am also aware that you shed cake crumbs at a rate of one-quarter teaspoon per cake, and are currently wearing a cumulative half-teaspoon by my visual estimate. What one man can ingest, John, another man can discover. Ah, Mycroft's things!" He pounced at the approaching orderly, swept the lidded institutional cardboard storage crate from his hands, popped the top, tossed it aside, and immediately began rifling through the contents.

"Tchk. How many silk ties do you own, Mycroft?  _And_ IDs: an embarrassment of riches there, I should think. Shoes—Foster and Son. Suit—Gleves and Hawkes, and you'd have a few things to say if you knew it wasn't properly hung. Shirt—same. T. ,Four Quartets: in a pensive mood before coming in? Or has Eliot become habit by now?" He fluttered through the pages of a small, pocket-sized volume with apparent familiarity, stopping to read, "'A people without history is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern of timeless moments.' Well, I suppose even poets can get some things right. But where is it…not here, not there. Where is the ring, my precious? We wants it, we do…"

"I knew you shouldn't have gone on that case in New Zealand," John grumbled. "And with that movie on the flight. It got to you. Next thing you know, you'll start thinking dragonish thoughts and turn into Fafnir."

"Smaug," Molly murmured. "You've got the wrong Ring cycle."

"But where is it?" Sherlock muttered, ignoring both of them. He looked sharply at the orderly. "A ring. Plain gold. Heavy weight. Size ten, engraved with the words 'Esse Vigilo!' on the inner surface. Clean, slightly worn. Where is it?"

The orderly backed up, looking panicked. "I don't know. I don't have it." His voice was shrill. "I'm no thief!"

Around him the MI5/6 brigade was coming alive and taking notice. One of them appeared to be talking into an inconspicuous over-ear headset.

"Sherlock, heads-up," Molly murmured.

"Where is the ring?" Sherlock seemed almost ready to roar.

The orderly, frantic, searched the room, found the box lid, and darted toward it. He flipped it and shoved it toward Sherlock."Here-here-here…the inventory. See—nothing listed as going to the safe, either. And your brother signed off on it. No ring, I tell you—there can't be a ring. I didn't touch anything!"

Sherlock scanned down the list at high speed…and stopped, suddenly still and calm. "Oh. Oh, Mycroft, you devious…" He looked up, eyes gazing into unseen infinity. He handed box and lid back to the orderly without even looking, trusting the man to take them rather than let them fall. "John—we're going to the Palace."

"What?" John gaped. "Now?"

" _Now_! John, tell Lund to text me if Mycroft's condition changes." He strode firmly toward the bank of elevators at the far end of the corridor, then swerved and doubled back. With one smooth move he shanghaied the coffee carton out of Molly's grip—then, to her stunned amazement, he curved his hand around the nape of her neck and dropped one kiss on the top of her head. She felt the grit of stubble on her forehead, and realized for the first time that he was as unkempt as his friend. "You are a jewel among women, Molly Hooper. John—get the sausage rolls! We're off!"

She was so rattled that he and John were halfway down the corridor before she remembered John wouldn't have had a chance to tell him about the varicella titer—and that she hadn't had a chance to talk to him about the impossibility of his having ever had chickenpox.

"Wait—Sherlock!" she called, trying to catch up. "Sherlock, hang on—I need to tell you something. Sherlock? Sherlock!?"

He wasn't listening. She was too quiet—too much mousey Molly.

Inside, something rose up and growled, and whatever it was, it was a pure Brixton beast. She stopped square in the middle of the corridor, and a roar rise up from her belly.

" _Oi! Holmes! Not one more step, y' daft chancer!"_

The entire world seemed to slide to a slow stop, as Sherlock and John staggered and turned and stared, and Molly stood frozen where she was, stunned at the pure sound and command that had risen up out of her.

Somewhere behind her Mrs. Hudson was laughing.

"Molly?" It had to be Sherlock speaking—but his voice sounded uncharacteristically uncertain.

She drew in a deep breath and set her jaw. "Yes. Well. Your titer—you're not immune. Never were.. And we need to talk about that sometime. Text me when you're free. It's important. And…don't you dare go in to see Mycroft unprotected until you test immune. Do you understand?"

He nodded, slightly wild-eyed. "Yes."

She felt a giggle rising up, and couldn't quite stifle it. Her hands rose and covered her burning cheeks…but the laughter made her brave. "Yes-what, ?"

He stared at her until John elbowed him and murmured under his breath, "You're supposed to say, 'Yes, ma'am.'"

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up, his face went blank—and then, suddenly, he was simply, absolutely amused. Still holding the carton of coffee under one arm, he swept a deep, flourishing bow, waving an imaginary hat in his other hand. Rising, he met her eyes. "Yes, Molly Hooper, ma'am."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * "Full Monty Hazmat." Molly is saying it's a good thing John and the hospital refused to let Sherlock go in to see Mycroft without wearing full quarantine gear, because he's not immune to chickenpox after all. I do hope my Brit-speak is good enough to have gotten the idiomatic use of "full monty" right.


	9. The Buckingham Irregulars

John was John. As one obstacle after another fell before Sherlock, and they penetrated deeper and deeper into the confines of Buckingham Palace, he looked on in stunned and shocked amazement, unable to guess the nature of the magic trick that cleared all paths for them.

It was simple, really— _obvious_ , if John had only thought about it. All one had to know was what Mycroft was, and that Beemish's little mob of security people had been present in the hospital waiting room when Sherlock announced his destination. At that point only two things could have happened.

John and Sherlock might have ended up sitting in a windowless room, restricted for the foreseeable future. After all, it was perfectly plausible that Her Majesty's Secret Service didn't want Mycroft Holmes' unpredictable maverick little brother mollocking about in the nation's most sensitive affairs. Or…

Or this. For some reason they were willing to suffer his intrusion—were perhaps even desperate for him to intrude. Taking into account their frenzy over Mycroft's current condition, it had seemed a worthwhile bet that they would be willing to bring him in. Every guard who stepped aside to let them pass, or who directed them down yet another quiet corridor, confirmed he'd won his bet. That did not, however, explain the nature of their desperation—it only illustrated its depth and intensity.

Sherlock knew how serious things were when they passed from polished perfection to corridors carpeted with slightly worn runners and flanked with wainscoting that showed the passage of years. They were no longer dealing with the façade of government, the crisp, clean show put on to impress outsiders. They were now in the cloistered rooms where elected officials and political appointees seldom came, but where unsung career civil servants ran the empire over the course of decades…decades? No. Centuries.

A dusty little man in a formal morning coat met them at an intersection of corridors flanked with well-kept but far from new chairs. He tipped the two men the merest hint of a bow. "This way, please."

Moments later they entered a room with ancient leaded glass windows on either side paned in wavy glass that looked out over a small garden at the left and a vast expanse of lawn on the right. He'd been in this room before—seldom, though, and never happily. The last time had been immediately after his "death." The time previous he'd been with Mycroft and Irene Adler.

An old man sat behind the broad oak table placed under of the windows looking out on the garden. Sherlock found himself automatically licking his lips. "Uncle William."

"Sherlock." William, that old lizard, showed no sign of dismay…though he had to be deeply dismayed to be meeting Sherlock here, and now. "I'd say 'how nice to see you,' but you'd only point out the nature of the lie, so I shan't bother. Do sit down, please—and you, too, Dr. Watson. I've ordered tea and sandwiches. You can have a decent meal while Sherlock and I have a little discussion."

John frowned—an expression that reminded Sherlock of a worried fox hound picking up a strange new scent. "Um, thank you. And…you are…? Who?" For all the gentle phrasing and the manner of a slightly absent-minded professor, John's voice and eyes made it clear he was demanding an answer.

Uncle William merely smiled, eyes half-lidded, a wrinkled enigma.

"He's William Emery, Esquire, Mycroft's and my great-uncle. He is to Mycroft as Mycroft is to a corner greengrocer. If Mycroft is Her Majesty's Fixer, Uncle William is the fixer's fixer."

"You do so like ripping the dustsheets off of that which is decently shrouded in obscurity, Sherlock. No sense of discretion at all," William complained. He turned his attention back to John. "He is, however, correct enough, insofar as it goes. I'm largely out of action these days—Mycroft has come along nicely, and more and more I can leave everything in his capable hands. Every so often, though, they do call me out of my peaceful retirement to…shall we say I am asked to unravel the occasional nasty, tangled skein of yarn?"

John looked little the wiser…but he also had the resigned look he often seemed to get when dealing with the Holmes brothers and their associates. "Yeah, okay, good enough." He sat in an elegant light wooden Chippendale armchair with thin leather upholstery. He looked at his two companions with a flash of humor, and gave a mock-gracious flick of his hand. "Keep calm and carry on, then. God forbid any skeins be left tangled."

William glanced at a second armchair. "Sherlock? If you'll be seated?"

"I'd rather stand, thank you."

"You were always the most defiant boy. I had hoped you'd grow out of it—such a waste of potential tossed away on worthless displays of resistance—but I see age has not withered nor custom staled your infinite contrariety."

"Not content with having taken possession of one Holmes brother? Poor Mycroft—does he know you don't just want an heir, but an heir and a spare?"

"He's the one who continues to hold out hope for you, Sherlock. As far as I'm concerned you're barely worthy of consideration, and then useful only in melodramatic efforts such as you recently endeavored for us: splashy and dramatic, but not requiring much subtlety. Finding and eliminating Moriarty's brute squad was useful—but hardly elegant."

"And elegance is always a major consideration in bespoke wet-work."

"If only your compassion matched your wit. A pity, really…you could be great, if you didn't think people too much bother compared to your precious puzzles. Mycroft is worth a dozen of you."

Sherlock's temper, never entirely placid, ignited, and the words shot out—a fast rat-tat-tat of observations, queries, and conclusions. "Mycroft, unfortunately, is not here to serve you—which is why, of course, I am. Otherwise you'd be appealing to him to help you deal with your ongoing project in the Middle East. How do I know the project is in the Middle East? Because Mycroft finally decided to call me home—and then went silent on me. Therefore I conclude that he had a mission, that the mission was one I might have disrupted had I remained in Islamabad, and might have damaged even here, had I known enough. Likewise, a project for which I have some background that would permit me to be useful to you know. So, what is Mycroft's little secret? More wet-work? No—too prosaic. Mere assassination can be entrusted to lesser administrators. No—something more challenging, or Mycroft wouldn't be your vital player. A project of his own, then, and subtle—and now in some way threatened. An event to be planned for? No…no." His eyes locked into focus, then, like a hunting cat who has just committed to an attack. If he'd been a cat his hips would have been shimmying and the tip of his tail fluttering like the feline version of jazz-hands. "Not something threatened.  _Someone_ threatened. An agent. Someone embedded. Someone in a position to not only supply information, but to sway decisions. Someone in deep cover in very high places—or very low. Someone who's not safe, anymore." He looked at William with a burning hunger. "Am I right? I am right! Who is it, Uncle William? Who?"

William's eyes narrowed, and he studied Sherlock with distaste. "So much brilliance, but no discipline, and absolutely no common sense. Think, you stupid little boy—think! A player that well placed, and that vulnerable? Who would know who it would be? Who can contact him—or her? How  _many_  were allowed to know the secret, Sherlock?" There was a tap at the door, then. William sighed. "Think about it, you young hound. Think about it while your friend and I have tea. " He raised his reedy voice, shouting, "Come in, Albert. You're not interrupting anything."

Sherlock threw himself into the armchair in front of the room's small fireplace, where a wood fire burned to push back the chill of autumn. "This is a waste of time."

"Tea, my dear Sherlock, is never a waste of time. Civilization is humanity's one great accomplishment, and tea is the pinnacle of civilization."

The tea service was comfortingly fussy and Victorian, covered in hand-painted pink cabbage roses. The tea was strong black India tea. The sandwiches, arranged on a three-tiered serving platter, were plentiful and varied. William encouraged John to eat his fill. John obeyed. He and the older man quickly found topics in common to discuss: a mutual fondness for smoked salmon sandwich fingers and egg-salad toasts; a conviction that strong black tea with milk and sugar was a primary food group in its own right; and the shared observation that active duty was character-forming—but that the character formed was not always optimal.

Through it Sherlock brooded, as openly and intrusively as possible. He  _detested_  finding himself at odds with his great-uncle. There were few people who could disassemble Sherlock's ego at all, and none who could do it with quite the same level of zestful efficiency. Mycroft could come close, but Mycroft was…kind-hearted. William had all of Mycroft's finesse and discipline, but shared with Sherlock a certain delight in savagery. Mycroft would do only such harm as he felt was both earned and necessary. William would do as much harm as he thought would leave his victims useful—but bleeding and begging for pain medication.

When the tea trolley had at last been rolled away, William took a few extra seconds to ensure he was neat and crumb free, then lifted his chin and addressed Sherlock, who was still pouting by the fire. "And have you managed to refine your theories, Sherlock?"

"An embedded agent in a powerful but vulnerable position in the Middle East, whose actual identity is known only to Mycroft and a very small set of others: I would suspect no more than one or two others. You've just gotten word that the agent has been identified and is being targeted by enemies—but you don't know who the agent is yourself, nor do you know who else Mycroft entrusted with the knowledge. Even if you did know who Mycroft was working with, you couldn't trust them—someone, after all, leaked to your enemies. If you get this wrong you lose a well-placed agent…and possibly the upcoming project, as well."

"Yes. Very good. And?"

"And you think I can determine who the agent is, and how to warn him or her safely, without alerting Mycroft's middle-men."

"You don't think we want you to capture the leak and cancel the project?"

"He's got 'teacher voice,'" John said in mild amusement. "That's a trick question. Now I know who drills the Holmes boys."

Sherlock shot John a furious glare, then snapped his attention back to William. "No. You want the plan to proceed, and you want Mycroft's agent warned. But you also want to watch the behavior of the leaker. Depending on what you see, your decision may be assassination, feeding the mole misinformation, or something as simple as an apparently ordinary reassignment, taking the two-timer out of play but still under your eye. "

"Nicely reasoned."

"I'll need access to all Mycroft's records."

"Not possible."

"Make it possible."

"I can't. Even if I wanted to, there's no way you would be allowed access so much of Mycroft's information. You're not that trustworthy."

"Yet you're trusting me with this."

"Yes. With great reservations. You are brilliant, Sherlock. You always have been. But you are selfish, immature, impulsive, capable of vengeful cruelty, and highly erratic. Not to mention being terrifyingly ignorant of much of the world, and utterly unaware of the ways that ignorance can affect you and others. I have read in Dr. Watson's blog you did not know the world rotates around the sun—and that you thought it made no difference to you whether it did or did not: that you would solve your cases just the same. But it would make a difference. Earth and its life could not survive in a Ptolemaic system. You would have no cases…you would not live in the first place."

Sherlock's jaw clenched, and he fought his temper down like a hot-headed schoolboy facing a hated schoolmaster. "And your point, sir?"

"You do not know or even imagine the consequences of your own ignorance…and you refuse to take responsibility for the consequences when you act out of that ignorance. You've already done inestimable damage to critical projects out of combined ignorance and vanity. I do not intend to allow you to do that again."

"Very well. Allow me to educate myself: give me access to Mycroft's information."

"No. Tell me what to look for, and I and those assigned to Mycroft will search and tell you what you need to know."

"Unacceptable."

"You have your own resources, Sherlock. I suggest you use them. What do you need me to look for from Mycroft's files?"

Sherlock glared at William. "I could refuse to do this."

William's bushy white brows flew up in skeptical surprise. "Could you? Really?"

Mycroft hovered between them like the ghost of someone already dead.

Sherlock stood, then, and paced a turn around the little room. His eye traced the shoulder of an elegant Ulster coat hanging from a coat hook by the door. He stroked the curved handle of the umbrella tucked into a blue-and-white Chinese floral umbrella stand. "No. Not really." He turned back to look at William. "I need a precise of what you can give me surrounding the issue. Someone's got to know something—you can't send me in blind. There are too many things to rule out, and too little time. Can you do that much? Even if the agent's name is secret, the broader details of the project can't be." He gave a bitter smile. "After all, Mycroft's not me. He's the responsible one. He'll have kept his people in the loop."

William nodded. "I can do that, yes. Anything else?"

"Where is Mycroft's ring?"

William sat up, then. "What?"

"His ring. Where's his ring?"

"It's not with him?"

"No. I checked his possessions at the hospital, and reviewed the inventory. Unless someone's successfully hiding something from me, he didn't have it with him when he went in."

"Impossible!" William looked as shocked as Sherlock felt.

John frowned at them. "He was going to be in hospital. Most people leave off their jewelry if they know they're going in hospital."

William and Sherlock both rounded on the doctor, scowling. "Not the ring," William said, and Sherlock added, "He might have slipped it on a chain to wear around his neck or as a bracelet…but he wouldn't have left it."

"What's so special about the ring?" John asked, bewildered now.

"That is Mycroft's business," the older man said, sharply, closing off conjecture. He turned back to Sherlock. "You think he left it behind to mark something in some way?"

"You and I and a very few others are the only ones who would see the absence of the ring as a clue. Mycroft would have counted on us—on  _me_ noticing, but only if something went so wrong that I had to be called in. It was the perfect message: one that would never be delivered until it had to be delivered. I would only know if Mycroft were dead or dying."

"Yes. In which case finding the ring may well provide a second message."

"Yes."

William nodded, almost to himself. "Yes. Very well, Sherlock. You do what you do best—and I'll start work here. You've given me some ideas and some things to look out for." Even as he spoke it was clear he was going into his own private mental space, planning and considering.

Sherlock caught John's eye, and gave a slight head-jerk toward the door. As John rose, he said, "Be sure to get back to me. Goodbye, Uncle William."

"Yes, yes…" He barely noticed his guests leaving—nor did he notice when Sherlock slipped the umbrella out of the stand and hooked it over his arm.

While walking down the corridors, tracing the invisible clue of their reverse passage, John asked, "Where was that? Besides Buckingham-bloody-Palace?"

"Mycroft's rooms."

John stopped cold. "You mean Mycroft  _lives_ at Buckingham Palace?"

"You know he does—you've been before! Do you pay attention to nothing, John?"

"I thought he'd been called in. Emergency. You know—that kind of thing."

"He's a member of the Royal Household. Further the deponent sayeth not. He is what one might call 'admirably placed to see to matters requiring both great latitude of authority and even greater discretion.'"

"He lives here. In bloody Buckingham-bloody-Palace."

"Yes, John. It's convenient for him…and for his masters."

John shook his head in stunned disbelief. "Here. Buckingham Palace. And you living in Mrs. Hudson's first storey flat?"

Imitating Mrs. Hudson's inflections,Sherlock said, wryly, "It's a funny old world, then, isn' it?"

He might have laughed, then, but he didn't. The weight of Mycroft's umbrella seemed to weigh him down beyond all hope of laughter.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes:
> 
> William Emery, Esquire: if it helps you imagine him, my brain decided in the midst of writing him that he looks and seems very nearly exactly like Sir Ian McKellan as Magneto in the X-Men movies. My mind apparently thinks it takes someone of Sir Ian's caliber to hand Sherlock his arse on a platter.
> 
> I am considering whether or not to post "Adler Alerts" on episodes. While it would make some readers feel safer, it would steal the pleasing element of surprise from readers who don't mind Irene. I will continue pondering. If you've got something that is A: brief, and B: has a legitimate claim to being noted in my pondering, you may send me a polite IM.


	10. The Dying Detective

Molly arrived home at the end of the day of the day only to find an email from John with the viral and bacterial analysis she'd requested attached. She flipped them over to the printer, and wandered out to her kitchenette to open a can of food for Toby and to decide what to do for her own dinner. Only when she had a bowl of soup simmering on the stove top and a hot mug of tea in hand did she take the time to text John.

_Hi, John. Got your email. Thanks._

_No problem. What do you expect to find in it?_

_No idea. You're the doctor. Did anything jump out at you?_

_No. Oka strain varicella zoster. CA-MRSA pneumonia. Lund's not hiding anything from us._

_I didn't think he was._

_Then why ask?_

_I don't know. Just because._ Molly frowned. She really didn't know what she was expecting to find on the files lying in the tray of her printer. She just knew something was niggling at her. Still, it wasn't like she had anything to tell John, yet. _How was Buckingham Palace?_

_The Queen was not in residence. No, I shouldn't have said that. One of Sherlock's bad jokes. It was surreal._

_?_

_Don't ask. I think if I tell you, Beemish's Bright Young Things have to kill us both._

Ooooooh, yeah. TMI for sure. How had she become the sort of person MI5 and MI6 might be interested in, anyway? Molly grimaced. Something about the company she kept, maybe?

_Ooooo-kay. Any word on Mycroft?_

_Not so far._

_And Sherlock?_

_Driven. Been texting people all day. Appears to have hit a roadblock. Not pleased._

_Who's at the hospital tonight?_

_No one. We're at 221B right now. I finally convinced Sherlock he had to sleep._

_How did you manage that?_

_Played dirty. Told him Mycroft was depending on him, and if he didn't sleep he'd make mistakes._

_That worked?_

_Yes._

_Hell._

_Exactly._

Molly frowned, working through the implications.

_So—one in a coma and the other scared enough to behave?_

_Yeah. Unless he's really just scared enough to climb out a window in a silly disguise and go hunting trouble without me along to nag him._

_I'd place my bet on the window._

_I know, Molly. But—I can't let him drag me back into this as his babysitter. I've been up 48 hours without sleep. I'm tired. I'm going home to Mary._

_Understood. Sleep well, John. Give my best to Mary._

_Will do. Night._

She pocketed her phone, poured some of her soup into a mug, and took both soup and hot tea to the living room. Soon she was curled on the sofa with Toby beside her, frowning over the printed analyses.

Nothing. There was nothing odd. Nothing outstanding. John was right: these told her just what she'd expect to see based on what they'd been told…

She couldn't imagine what she could learn from the expected and the normal. It was like helping with the autopsy of someone who'd died of a heart attack: it was no surprise to find all the standard traces of COPD, arteries crusted thick with cholesterol deposits, age… Sometimes she wondered why they bothered checking in cases like that.

Well, they usually didn't check. Non-criminal autopsies weren't standard, though they still happened. Most of the time, though, the doctors and the families agreed: no need to tear up the body of the deceased just to confirm the obvious and the known. She knew only one doctor working with who was really very likely to push for an autopsy, and even he was selective. Molly had asked him once why he'd chosen to autopsy one patient, though. She remembered his answer.

"Even when we know the basics, there are always refinements—little details." He'd gestured at the body they'd just finished closing back up. "That one, for example: cause of death is just what I put down at the time. Terminal stages of ovarian cancer. But… Molly, every time I look inside, I learn something. Know a bit more. Understand a bit more. This one? She let it go too long. She was polycystic. Mistook her symptoms for more complications from the condition—and she neglected the condition because it made her feel like a failure as a woman. You can see years of pain tracking through her body. The cancer was just one more pain. It's worth it just to try to understand the ecology of a disease. Nothing exists in isolation."

What was the ecology of Mycroft's disease? Where had a grown man encountered chickenpox—a grown man leading a life almost as remote from children as it was remote from the moon? She didn't know…but she did now know something she could try to find out. She moved over to her computer, logged on to the internet, and began to search.

An hour later she pulled out her phone and dialed a doctor she knew had night-shift at St. Barts.

"Zhuan? Do you have a minute?"

"Slow night here, Molly—you can take an hour."

"I'm hoping I don't need an hour. What do you know about forensic epidemiology?"

"I know how to say it without stuttering. I knew enough to pass epidemiology a century or two ago. Not a lot more. Why?"

"I'm trying to track down vector patterns, spread of diseases, and mapping of various disease strains. You know—where different variants are endemic."

"NHS keeps records. IEA, maybe? Beyond that—I'd call one of the epidemiology professors in the morning, Moll. I'm not going to be able to help you much."

"Okay. Well. Thanks, Zhuan. "

She hung up, still frowning…and had one last idea.

Her fingers fluttered over her keyboard, linking her to St. Barts' system, passing her through to her morgue account. From there she slipped into the inter-hospital databank, and from there to a routine assay of the Royal Marsden—a public record, if you knew what to look for. She pulled the printouts over and looked, frowning as she concentrated on fine details. Her eyes widened, and she did a quick cross search. A few more searches and she was sure. She checked the printout again, then pulled her phone out.

_Sherlock? Are you busy?_

_Very. Go away._

_This is important. Text me back as soon as you can._

_Go. Away. Now._

_All right. TEXT ME._

She flipped the phone shut, scowled, then flipped it open again.

_John?_

_Molly?_

_Busy?_

_Trying to sleep, Molly._

She thought about how worn out he'd looked that morning—and he hadn't slept since. Poor John…

_Sorry-sorry-sorry. But this is important and Sherlock won't talk. Mycroft's not just sick. I'm willing to bet someone tried to kill him._

_What?_

_Murder._

_Explain._

She could almost hear his voice, the snap of an officer handed bad news.

_It's the wrong strain of CA-MRSA staph. Wrong thumbprint entirely. Sampling rate for the Royal Marsden on the strain Mycroft's got is practically zero, for our purposes. There are three other variants he should have picked up before he got this one._

_You're kidding._

_He's got a strain that's most common in the Middle East. John, someone's got to alert Lund and Beemish, and get an epidemiologist on it. They're not going to listen to me, and Sherlock's—not talking to me right now. You're a doctor. They'll listen to you._

_I'm nobody to Beemish, Molly. I don't belong in that world, and they know it._

_Then make Lund listen._

_Mycroft's already got pneumonia, Molly, even if it's an odd strain. This won't change anything._

_He hasn't died, John. He's surviving. Someone tried to kill him at least once—someone with access to him in Intensive Care. Someone who knows how to kill and make it look natural. He's got to be guarded—only they don't know what to guard against. All those stupid thugs in suits can shoot their stupid guns all they like, and it won't stop bacteria._

When John finally texted back she could almost hear the weariness in his reply.

_Damn. All right. I'll call Lund. Molly? Write that up and email it to Sherlock. Even if he's being an arse, he's got to know._

_Will do. Tell Lund, and then sleep, John._

_You, too, Molly. You did a great job._

_I know. Even I'm pretty impressed._

_You should be._

_Yeah._

_Good night, Molly._

_Good night, John._

At 221B, Sherlock had his own worries keeping him busy. When Molly had texted, he'd been in the middle of a phone call.

"No. She's not going to accept less, Uncle William. … Fine, yes, you're right, it's highway robbery. … Yes. A scandal? What did you expect? I'm asking her to risk her life and her career, just after she began to get it back. … I don't care if you've got a thousand agents who can work with me— Irene's got contacts they can't touch. … No, this is not 'sentiment.' Don't insult either of us. … Yes. Six figures. … All right, I admit, they are six very large figures. It's money well spent. Hold on, I've got a text coming in…"

He scowled at the screen, frustrated. If he didn't bring William around, he'd have to try to work through Beemish, and that was a lost cause. He didn't have time to deal with Molly or her feelings right now—he was working to a clock tied to Mycroft's beating heart, doing the only thing open to him to help his brother... He'd no sooner typed in the last character sending her away than he was back to his call.

"She's got three clients in particular who can offer me insight into the household you've suggested. One's a madrasa boy looking for a brush with Western decadence, one's a minor bureaucrat spending bribe money, and one's a lieutenant for one of the warlords. … Of course she takes terrorist money, Uncle William. Escaping them? That was good. Making them pay her for the privilege of groveling naked at her feet? Priceless. … Do we have a deal? … Good. Yes-yes. Look at it this way, Uncle William: you're fully dressed, right-side up, and you don't have to say, 'thank you, ma'am, can I please have another.' … I'll get back to you as soon as I can confirm. Tell your people to watch out, though: don't mistake her for one of us. Irene's in it for Irene, and if she sees a way to improve on her situation she will…. "

He didn't waste a second after ending the call.

_Irene?_

_Sherlock, I told you—don't bother me unless they're willing to pay._

_They're willing to pay._

_I see. That does change things. What next?_

_My contact will have the first payment wired to your account by morning. After that you'll be put in touch with one of our people. He'll want to interview you first, to determine what you may already know. After that you'll have to work how much more you can find out._

_Sherlock, what's this all about?_

_That would be telling._

_Another fun game, dear?_

_No game. Don't play with me on this, Irene. If you do, you'll regret it._

_So serious! Tell me, what's in it for you?_

_That would be telling, too. Don't bother guessing, Irene. It's not anything you'd understand._

_Try me?_

_Already did. Leave it. If you want to play games, play with the clients we mentioned—and play to win._

_That's the only way I ever play, dear._

_Then be cleverer than when you played with me and Mycroft. This round you dare not lose._

_Or what?_

_I haven't decided, yet._

_Mmmm. Sounds interesting…_

_Irene, it's not a game. And if you lose, you won't find the outcome interesting at all. Just ugly. Do you understand?_

_You're really serious about this, aren't you?_

_Deadly._

_I see._

_Good. You won't get a second chance._

_I'm hurt._

_No, you're not._

_At least the pay is good._

_Then take it—and be content._

He wasted no time thinking about Irene after hanging up. For the next day or so she'd be the problem of one of Beemish's agents, rather than his. He called William, assured him that Irene had agreed to their terms, then hung up. He slipped out of his armchair and over to his laptop, arguing with a non-present John as he did so.

"Later. I can sleep later. I'm awake now, and I need to keep working. If you wanted me to sleep you should have stayed here and made me."

Mixed in with his other email, he spotted a message with an attachment from Molly. The subject-line was, "URGENT-URGENT-URGENT—I mean it, Sherlock! READ THIS!"

He scowled and sighed. Molly was never this intrusive….and she knew he was no good at internet-emotional things: she'd learned that the hard way the very first time she'd been fool enough to send him a kitten macro. He couldn't think of anything normal she'd contact him about this determinedly, either. They weren't working a case together, there was no corpse in her morgue that was going to overweigh his concern for Mycroft at this time.

Driven as much by curiosity as anything, he opened the email and began to read. Half an hour later he was back on the phone.

"Molly, meet me over at the Royal. I need to tell Beemish Mycroft needs better protection and you're my backup. He's not going to listen to me, but he might listen to you. I'd bring John, but he's turned his phone off. What? Good. … Good. …That will help. Glad to know he's brought Lund onboard, but I've still got to check for myself. I still want you there to translate for Beemish, and to explain your work. This isn't going to sit well with him. … Then for God's sake, change out of your pajamas! Molly, don't argue, just meet me there."

The fight with Beemish took an hour. Moving Mycroft took three, largely because Beemish and Lund had to deal with the logistics involved in establishing the layers of obfuscation, evasion, and misinformation being laid down at the same time. They didn't dare change hospitals—Mycroft was too weak. Instead Beemish and Lund conspired to play an elaborate shell-game, ultimately leading to a "Mr. Brian Dobbs" being added to the roster of patients at the Royal Marsden—and to Sherlock Holmes phoning in an obituary notice to the London  _Times_.

When he was finished, he sat staring at the screen of the phone, barely aware he'd curled himself into a knot in the shoddy metal armchair in the room the Royal Marsden had assigned him, on the side of the hall opposite Mycroft's. His feet were off the floor and on the chair-seat. His knees rose high, framing his body. He'd wrapped one arm around himself, and was clutching his own elbow so hard that the next day he'd find bruises.

"That was hard," he said. His voice was flat.

"Yes." Molly didn't sound at all surprised.

He didn't choose to acknowledge her understanding. He didn't choose to acknowledge the price any of them had paid for his own death…especially now, with Mycroft's own faked death jangling his nerves, and fear of that death becoming real haunting him.

"You did good work," he said, instead. "You may have saved his life."

"I'm afraid all I did was realize he probably didn't get the staph infection through normal channels. They're evaluating where the strain is common, now. That may tell them something. The same with the chickenpox. But either of them may be from someone's lab. And there's still a chance he could have contracted it normally."

"I still can't understand….I could have sworn we had chickenpox. We were taken to Aunt Freya's. We stayed a few days till Mummy wasn't so upset. We came back. We were all over spots…they itched like fire. Mycroft told me riddles, until I got angry and bored."

"He took care of you."

He growled, annoyance and frustration mixing with fear and nerves. "A regular mother-hen, our Mycroft. 'Holmes Major,' they called him when we were at King's. Holmes Major and Holmes Minor, and if I could have gone anywhere in the world to stop being Holmes Minor I'd have done it in a split second. Even at school he tried to fuss over me. I was seven when I started, and he had three more years before he went on to uni. It was bad enough without him coming over and lecturing me when I got in trouble. It was dreadful: he was a prefect, and then head boy, and he'd come over all prissy and  _have a talk_  with me."

Molly snorted, covered her mouth, snorted again, and dissolved into slow giggles. He glared at her. "It wasn't funny."

"Not then, maybe. Not to you. Here and now? To any of your friends? Too cute for words."

"Mycroft and I were  _never_  cute," he announced, horrified.

"You were adorable. I can tell. He'd be all stern and gawky and trying way too hard to be a good big brother and set an example and let you know he cared, and you'd be all angry and resentful and telling him he's not your parent, and he'd never understand how much you like being the center of attention even if it means getting in trouble, and you'd never understand that too many people noticing him make him want to curl up and hide."

He frowned at her. "How do you know that?"

"Observation, my dear Sherlock. Just observation."

Molly, watching him, wondered if he'd ever understand: Where he saw a million quanta of little impersonal details, she saw a million quanta of hopes, fears, feelings, and emotions. Once, she had known he was sad, when even John Watson had failed to see. Tonight she could see he was afraid…afraid of losing a big brother he'd never been able to admit loved him, and had never known how to love in return.

She smiled, and gestured to the hospital bed. "Time for you to sleep."

"I can't."

"Yes, you can…and if you don't, you won't be fit to protect Mycroft."

He looked at her through narrowed eyes. "You're manipulating me."

"You'd be the one to know, genius."

"I don't like being manipulated."

"Then don't make it necessary. It's not that difficult, Sherlock."

"You're a very dangerous woman, Molly Hooper."

"It's the company I keep. Bad influences, all of you. Now—Go. To. Bed."

He complied—but not before sticking his tongue out at her.

She laughed most of the way home.

 


	11. Antagonistic to Clear Reason

Sherlock stood in the middle of Mycroft's main room, closed his eyes, and opened his senses. He could hear the whispers of the Palace around him and, even more faintly, the murmur of London traffic. There was the steady tick-tock of a seven-day clock on the mantel—Uncle William or a member of the household staff must have wound it. The carpet was thin beneath his booted feet; as he recalled it was an old oriental carpet with little nap but incredible detail. He could feel the leading edge of sunlight from the leaded-glass windows. There was a faint odor of wood smoke from the elegant little fireplace; beeswax and lemon furniture polish; the haunting trace of Mycroft's rare indulgence in a cigarette. He could smell Mycroft's scent: his own personal blend, of course. Sherlock would have rolled his eyes at the vanity of it, under other circumstances. It was so very, very  _Mycroft_  of Mycroft to have his own scent, compounded of stodgy, traditional bergamot, lavender, lemon, and cedar, but with a startling, beguiling thread of lily of the valley included to throw you off-balance and remind you that Mycroft played the traditional stuffed shirt far more than he actually was a member of that species.

It was his detachment from the role that allowed him to play it with such brilliance, after all. It was one more masking game played by a man who hungered both for games and for camouflage. Sherlock suspected there was nowhere in Mycroft's life where he was not, ultimately, "passing."

Damn Mycroft. Damn him and his twisty, devious, reclusive self. And damn him for having known just what buttons to push to force Sherlock into whatever this mess was that Mycroft was no longer able to complete himself.

He heard the footsteps and classified them well before Uncle William came through the inner door and said, "How very Zen of you, Sherlock. Meditating?"

" _Observing._ Not that you were in any doubt. Have you found any new information?"

"No. Have you found our contact?"

"No. I can tell you that the connection with Faisal Mohammed Khan can be ruled out entirely."

"On what basis?"

"Death. Two months ago, in a pass in Zabul Province."

"Not that we've heard."

Sherlock opened his eyes and met William's fierce gaze with a sardonic smile. "You don't hear everything, Uncle-mine. My own contacts suggest he and his lieutenants were ambushed trying to bring a shipment of raw opium across the border from Afghanistan into Pakistan."

William gave a sour, disgruntled little growl, and stomped over to the table by the window. He sat, clasping his hands on the polished surface. "We should have heard."

"The family is trying to keep it a secret, until they can restructure."

"How the hell can they…"

"The matron of the house has three sons, and was herself educated in Paris, at the Sorbonne. She combines the best of both worlds—and she knows how to play her competitors. I am told she will succeed, though in what sense is still unclear. But my contacts insist she's too busy holding her family and her allies together to be part of any of Mycroft's grand schemes."

"You got this from your…mistress?"

"I got this from several drug runners working out of Islamabad, who helped me locate one of Moriarty's men a few months ago. I have no…mistress."

"That's not what Mycroft believed."

"Mycroft's beliefs are occasionally limited by his assumptions—about me, about women, and about relationships."

"Then what is she?"

"An education. A competitor. On occasion, an enemy. On occasion, an ally. Beyond that?" He flicked his brows, let his hands fly, his fingers flare in a quick gesture, dismissing the question. "Irene is Irene. I defy anyone to classify her more precisely."

William studied him, eyes hard and narrow. "You quite like having shed the title 'Virgin,' don't you, boy?"

"I quite like shedding a form of ignorance that proved dangerous."

"You're that cold, then?"

"Irene taught me the game; Mycroft taught me the underlying principles. 'Caring is not an advantage.'"

His uncle snorted. "It's as well we never did succeed in recruiting you. A few more beds to your credit, a few more kills, and you'd be asking for your martinis shaken, not stirred."

Sherlock allowed humor to win, and chuckled. "Holmes," he said in a lazy 007 voice. "Sherlock Holmes. Licensed to deduce. It does have rather a ring to it, doesn't it? And speaking of rings…"

"No," William growled, frustrated. "Not a sign of it so far…and we've turned Mycroft's office and these rooms inside out."

Sherlock looked around, surprised. "You've put it back together quite well, then. I'd have expected to notice you'd been through. Some trace…some clue."

"How often are you here, boy?"

"Precisely as often as Mycroft wants me here—regardless of my own preferences." The words were bitter, no matter how he looked at them. "He's a private man."

"Accurate, if not insightful," William drawled. "Back to business, then. If it's not someone in Faisal Mohammed Khan's family, then who?"

"No idea yet. Irene's asking her contacts. I'm pulling information in from mine. Have you more to offer?"

"Nothing."

"And Molly's information about the staph infection? Have you learned more beyond that?"

William rose from the table again and paced the room, circling Sherlock, who held the center ground. "Nothing beyond that she's right. The strain is common in the richer urban hospitals throughout much of the Middle East. Israel, Kuwait, the Saudi Emirates. But there's not a University or an R&D lab that doesn't have some live samples under lock and key, and once there's a sample you can grow your own. It could have come from anywhere."

"You've reviewed the hospital staff?"

William wheeled on him. "We do know our jobs, Sherlock."

"Thus your need for my consultation." The words were intended to hurt. The flash of anger in William's eyes suggested they'd done their work.

"We're doing a full review. Sending out investigators to confirm what's on the record. Contacting associates. Doing this kind of background check takes time, even in this day and age. Especially in this day and age. We've got more information than ever—and most of it's junk." He prowled to the mantel and glared at the seven-day clock. He pulled out his pocket-watch and frowned. "Damn. Men must have buggered this up during the search. It's been losing fifteen minutes a day." He opened the glass face of the clock and spun the minute hand.

Sherlock blinked. "Wait…" He exploded into action, shouldering William aside. He spun the clock case, popped the access, and peered inside, then sent long fingers in to explore by feel. After a moment he sighed, and scowled. "Nothing. You're right. It must have been your men. Mycroft wouldn't have been able to bear it losing time that way."

"They would have looked inside," William said, in dry reprimand. "An empty box like this? Of course they looked in. Probably just slipped the bob a little in the process." He took the clock from Sherlock, carefully closed the back, replaced the case on the mantel, adjusted the hands again, and closed the clock face. "Pretty thing, though. Georgian, at a guess. Black marble with gilt work. Very nice, indeed." He settled the boxy case dead center on the mantel. He turned and looked at Sherlock, then. "Where are you looking next, Sherlock?"

"Irene's gossiping. She's fairly soon she'll know the major families as well as is possible for an outsider with good connections and no ethical restraints. She's looking at those with financial problems, or with conflicting loyalties. I'm pulling in all my contacts. Beyond that—I'm hoping for inspiration, or for your people to find something to work with."

"You're not offering me a lot of hope, Sherlock."

"Mycroft didn't leave us a lot to hope for."

"Except his survival."

Sherlock didn't answer that. John would have called him out for the evasion. He was glad William was not as perceptive as John. It spared him any difficulty with voice management or involuntary twitches.

Damn Mycroft. Damn him. He wasn't supposed to be the one sick and in danger. That was Sherlock's prerogative. This was why he'd been the one who had to die, jumping off St. Barts, while Mycroft stayed at home, safe, secure, and sedentary. Sherlock found he hated being the one to worry, constantly. It was simply intolerable.

After leaving the Palace, he stopped at a rather touristy pub for late lunch. He poked his nose into John's practice, only to be chased off by John and his assistants after he made a perfectly obvious comment about how a patient had come to be pregnant. He went home to 221B to check his emails and text Irene for an update that told him nothing. At last he was out of excuses, and hailed a cab, directing it to the Royal Marsden.

It took longer to thread the maze to Mycroft's new room, this time. There were subtle and not-so-subtle check-points in place, now, new since Molly's revelation about the source of the CA-MRSA infection. Nurses approached smiling, and asking who he'd come to see who had not been present previously—he'd bet that even If they were real nurses, they were not normally employed by the Royal Marsden, but by Her Majesty's Secret Service. Orderlies with impressive physiques and remarkable reflexes lounged casually about, as though they'd nothing better to do than to observe passing staff, patients, and guests. As that was almost certainly what William had assigned them to do, it wasn't a wonder.

He'd reached the fifth floor, and the north corridor—the last stage before reaching Mycroft's room—when one more nurse approached, this one with a look of steel in her eye. "Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes?"

"This won't do, you know. It's wonderful that you and your friends care so much about your brother, but my nurses can't find a minute to tend to him when he's not surrounded by guards and guests. The poor man deserves the dignity of privacy when we change his catheter, at least."

Sherlock's temper rose. "Excuse me?"

"You hold his power of attorney, Mr. Holmes. He's in your care and keeping. I'm sure you believe that maintaining an endless death watch by his bedside shows love and concern, but do you think the poor man would appreciate being on display now, at his weakest?" The nurse, a short, cobby woman with strength of muscle and force of will, took his elbow and attempted to lead him away. "I'd like a chance to talk to you. We want to ensure you and your brother's friends are accommodated, but—"

Sherlock frowned, suddenly uneasy. "Later, Sister…" He tried to pull away, only to find her hand locking tighter to his elbow.

"Now, Mr. Holmes, I know it's hard…" Her eyes, though, didn't look sympathetic, they looked determined.

He pulled away, frowning…only to have her reach for him again.

He knew, then. With sudden terror he swerved, dodged her, and shot toward Mycroft's room, racing down the long, dim corridor as fast as his long legs could carry him. Behind him the nurse shrieked, in a high, furious tone. He was still too far away when Mycroft's door burst open, and one of the tireless guards charged out. Instead of moving to help Sherlock, though, he shouted something unintelligible down the hall to the nurse, then spun on the ball of his foot, preparing to run.

From the room, though, came a small, hissing fury. Molly Hooper launched herself at the man's legs, tackling him like a rugby fullback taking on an opposing player, then proceeded to climb his body even as he fell, crashing hard on the linoleum. Sherlock tried to brake before reaching them, only to trip, flying forward, mashing Molly between him and the flailing, swearing guard.

Molly didn't even bother to see who'd landed on her. She landed an agonizing elbow-blow on Sherlock, leaving him gasping, then continued her climb up the guard, who writhed below her, twisting to face his deadly little attacker. Molly was remorseless, fists landing on nerve centers, knuckles aiming for his throat, fingers gouging at his eyes. She clung hard with her legs, refusing to be tossed aside. Through it all she was silent, but for a grunt, a hiss, a huff of effort. Sherlock, gasping and clutching his ribs, fell back, trying to understand what was happening—just in time to see the frantic guard reach for his weapon under the loose fall of his lapel.

With a panicked shout he threw Molly aside, desperate to get her out of the immediate line of fire, then hurled himself at the guard, clutching his wrist, trying to wrench the gun out of his hand. Molly was already back in the fray, still silent, dodging over him and ramming hard fingers and thumb into the tendons of the gunman's hand.

The pistol dropped. The guard, frantic, bucked and thrashed, tossing Sherlock to one side of the hall. Molly, lunging again, was quickly thrown to the other side. Her head connected with the plaster with a hard, hollow crack, and for the first time she made a sound, yipping in pain.

Sherlock was scrambling back up, but he was too slow. The guard crept, rose up, stumbled, but was up in a flash and racing headlong into more guard as they hurtled around a corner. They shouted, drew—but they, too, were too late.

Sherlock barely noticed though. He was too busy surging across the hall to Molly, who was sprawled on the lino, her eyes shocky with pain, her hands creeping up to test her skull for bruises. The next few seconds were a muddle of hands and voices as Sherlock frantically tried to assess the damage:

Are you all right?/I think-/No, are you all right/Sherlock he…/Do you need a doctor?/I'm…fine—Ow! Sherlock!/There—that hurt. You need a doctor…

Then it ended, with her sudden, fierce, "Sherlock, for God's sake cut it out!" and a fast batting away of his hands. She sat up, scowling, as her hands gingerly tested her skull again. "I'm fine, I think. Maybe a bit concussed. We'll have the doctor check it. Did they catch the guard?"

"I don't know."

"He was trying to do something—I don't know what. He was moving toward Mycroft, and I thought it was just to check him, but someone out here shouted, and he dropped something, and then panicked and ran. So I chased him."

He felt appalled horror rise up in him, and with it frustrated anger. "You could have gotten killed!" It was dreadful, the combined dismay and adrenaline crash. He hadn't felt anything quite like it since he'd ripped the bomb jacket off John by the dim swimming pool years ago. He was panting—not so much from exertion as from surges of delayed terror. "He was twice your weight—and armed, you idiot!" Then, mind veering another direction, "How did you do that?"

"Huh?" She gave him a classic, bewildered Molly look. "Do what?"

"You were taking him apart!"

"Um…" she shrugged. "I'm a London girl? Years of self-defense class? I'm good at anatomy? I don't know, Sherlock. He was big but I was mad." She braced a hand on the wall and started to pull herself up.

Sherlock bounced from his squat and tried to help her up. "For God's sake, wait till the doctor's here."

"I don't  _need_ a doctor. I need a cup of hot tea and a biscuit, and maybe a bit of a lie-down. Oh, Lord, now I'm beginning to sound like Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock, you're going to knock us both down. Just get me to a chair, please? Go check Mycroft. I want to know he's all right."

He helped her to the guest's chair in Mycroft's room, then turned, prepared to examine—to  _observe._

What he observed was the wild rush of his own pulse, cascades of details flooding his mind refusing to be sorted, and a driving awareness of Mycroft, limp—dying—and Molly, wincing as she explored her bruises. He'd felt that anguished helplessness by the pool with John, before…the desire to protect, and the knowledge he couldn't. It had been worse when Moriarty had left, and they'd thought they'd won—somehow more terrifying in the relief than during the testing. He was too conscious now of two lives he had to protect, and could not protect.

"I've—I've got to go," he managed to say, knowing his voice was too weak, his pacing too broken, but unable to change that. "I'm—I need to find out if they caught him. I'll—I'll be back. I'll—" He realized he wasn't going to manage any better for now. He gave a blind wave, and shot out of the room, down the hall, moving from a walk to a lope to a dead run. He bypassed the elevator because he wasn't sure the wait wouldn't drive him mad. Instead he found the stairs and ran down all five flights. At last he was out in the car-park, gasping, looking out at the night city.

He leaned against the grubby brickwork and closed his eyes, forcing his breath to still, forcing his senses to close, finding a stillness inside.

"You all right, man?" called a voice from down the way.

Sherlock opened his eyes, looked down the line of the wall. An orderly was there, leaning on his own bit of brickwork, smoking a cigarette. "I'm…fine. Mind giving me one of those?"

"Bad night?"

"Bloody horrible."

The orderly nodded, sadly—wisely. "Gets like that around here. Hospitals." He shook a cigarette from the pack and held it out. "Menthol. Hope that's all right."

"Full tar?"

"Yeah."

"Bloody perfect." Sherlock took the cigarette, borrowed the orderly's lighter quickly, and took a deep, blessed drag, sucking the nicotine down as deep as possible…then coughing. Too long since he'd smoked regularly… He wheezed, leaned back, and took another, more cautious drag. Slowly he felt himself come together, no longer feeling like a puzzle box of muddled fragments all tossed out of order. As he finally began to relax, he contemplated Mycroft's one abiding truth:

Caring was not an advantage.

 


	12. To See and Observe

Molly couldn't believe it. The overgrown lummox had apparently suffered a breakdown or something. She tried to think of any time she'd ever seen Sherlock dither…or babble. Or run away. Even after years of knowing him she couldn't think of a single example. The closest she could come was that one Christmas Party, when for a short, shattering second she'd seen Sherlock shamed—and this hadn't really been like that at all, other than the odd sense that his defenses had been shattered and ground to dust.

But she was damned if she knew why. The fight and the mystery and the hunt were the sort of thing that usually had Sherlock baying with excitement like a rugger fan when his team looked likely to score a goal.

She leaned down, aching, trying to stretch strain and bruise out of her back and shoulders. With the adrenaline wearing off her aches and weariness were trying to take over. She could hear the nurses and agents working to put new guards in place.

Under Mycroft's bed, almost hidden his shadow, she saw something. She knelt and fished cautiously, trained by long experience not to risk cuts or stabs in a medical environment. When her fingers found something solid she flicked it gingerly out into the light, then picked it up from the linoleum floor, frowning.

This must be what the guard had dropped when he panicked. She studied it. It was a fine gauge 33 Stubs insulin hypodermic, pre-loaded, with a plastic cap over the tip. Instinctively she slipped it into her open tote, which lay by the wall of the room. The guard had betrayed Mycroft and tried to flee when Sherlock came by and that nurse shouted. She knew, as she'd known then, that something was wrong…deeply wrong. She also knew with cold certainty that Sherlock wouldn't want her handing the evidence over to anyone he hadn't cleared. Not after this.

A nurse looked in the open door. "Miss Hooper?"

"Yes?"

"There are some officers…? People?" She apparently pondered the correct term, and shifted reluctantly back. "Officers—there are some officers here who want to speak with you. Can they come in?"

Molly glanced over at Mycroft. He was still unconscious but not, thank God, dosed with whatever the guard had intended to slip him. "No. I think no one until Mr. Holmes' brother, Sherlock, has cleared it. Tell them I'll be out in a moment." The nurse nodded; her eyes were troubled.

Molly'd been a ward nurse long enough to sympathize entirely. Life at the Royal Marsden must be getting really strange for those nurses and doctors who had any dealings with Mycroft at all. New personnel everywhere, most of them set in place to guard not to pull their weight in ward tasks. Disruptions. Extra precautions. It couldn't be much fun even without events like tonight's. She smiled at the nurse, pitching her voice softly, radiating the kind of "don't mind me, I'm harmless" vibe that had stood her in good stead as a student nurse, and for years afterward. "I'm a nurse, too. I'm the senior tech at the morgue at St. Barts, now, but I was a ward nurse here when I first graduated from Florence Nightengale. If you'd bring by supplies, I can take care of Mr. Holmes for you, once the officers are done with me. Sherlock's already approved me being with his brother." She allowed herself a soft, mothery-dithery Mrs. Hudson-ish chuckle. "Safe as houses, I am. Check with the agents, but I can at least save you some work there."

The nurse brightened. "That would help ever so! Sister Johansen was supposed to be here, but she's disappeared, and Sister Chamkhani's out with flu…no use to us with your man there in intensive."

It took almost half an hour to satisfy the MI5 agent who questioned her. She kept it as simple as she could, and didn't mention the hypodermic. It frightened her that she didn't know who to trust. She wanted Sherlock there to give her a hint—but he was still missing when they finished up. She assured the agent she'd get back in touch if she thought of anything else, then returned to Mycroft's room. A cart loaded with fresh supplies had been left just outside the door.

She rolled it in, closed the door, then carefully examined the supplies for tampering. Once she felt reasonably confident the materials were safe, she began, dropping back into a familiar ritual. Bedridden patients in ICU had to be carefully managed, for fear of sores, site infections, blocked catheters, and more. She snapped on gloves and began, her mind pulling into an impersonal professional zone. When Sherlock did return she was too involved to really care.

She worked her way from Mycroft's head to his toes, leaving nothing untended, nothing unclean, nothing damp or likely to fester. She cleaned the pox sores, and dabbed them with antiseptic and a mild moisturizer to help them heal without scarring. She replaced medical tape stabilizing the various tubes and needles, replaced an IV tap that looked suspiciously gummy. Once she was sure she'd met his medical needs she took a moment to comb his thinning hair neatly, then pulled up a chair and simply held one of his hands.

"He's not conscious," Sherlock husked. His already deep voice was ragged and uncertain. He smelled of tobacco smoke. She might have scolded under other circumstances. The scent was faint, though, and unlikely to harm Mycroft—and Sherlock had a cigarette or two coming to him, what with one thing or another.

"That doesn't mean he doesn't know we're here," she said. "They've done studies on recovery rates and complications based on what's said and done around unconscious patients. It matters." She stroked the back of Mycroft's hand.

"He won't appreciate that, you know. He's not fond of touchy-feely." Sherlock tweedled his fingers in the air as though conjuring up some manic groper determined to pat and pinch and paw at innocent invalids.

"Then he can wake up and tell me so," she said, amused. It wasn't like either Holmes brother could be considered touchy-feely, after all. "I have something to show you when we leave. Something from before the attack."

When she glanced over she could almost see neurons firing. He nodded. "Yes."

"I was wondering. I'm not really happy with what happened here, tonight. Do you think you could call in some favors and have Inspector Lestrade's lab people do some some testing for us? I have something that worries me."

"I'd rather you did any testing."

"I've got another interview tomorrow, and I'm already behind on work."

"Cancel the interview and I'll have Uncle William explain to your supervisors."

"No."

He frowned, then—a thunderous glare she knew only too well. Part of her flinched. "No?"

"No." She took a deep breath, keeping her eyes on Mycroft's face. "This needs to be done reliably and with all the paperwork and tracking. We can't fudge this, Sherlock…it's too important, and there are too many people already playing silly buggers with the record keeping. And I need to get on with my life. I can find time to come over after work, and I'm glad to. But I can't start skipping work, or passing up interviews."

"Decided you'd rather be the lion, not the mouse, Molly Hooper?"

"Decided even a mouse can roar, once in awhile."

"You were no kind of mouse tonight. I didn't know whether to rescue you or the guard." He didn't sound entirely happy about it, either. "Don't do that, again, Molly. It's dangerous."

"So's what you do. So's what I do, when it comes to that—mucking around inside dead bodies has its own risks."

"It's different."

She set her jaw. "No, it's not. I don't see you running around telling John to keep out of danger."

He made a noise that was as much huff as mumble.

"Well you don't," Molly insisted.

"He's a soldier."

"Was a soldier."

"He's got the training." Before she could continue, he took a restless turn around the hospital room, growling, "Would you please not argue, Miss Hooper?"

"So I'm 'Miss Hooper' now?" she said, truly amused. She'd been afraid of his temper for so long—she could hardly believe that now she'd actually risk baiting him. They were changing. She wasn't sure how. Was she less in love—no longer feeling the waves of adoration and embarrassment and need she'd once felt? Or were they closer now than they'd ever been, beginning to talk between themselves as friends and peers for the first time? She smiled to herself and stroked the back of Mycroft's hand again, skillfully avoiding jarring the inserted needles. "Sherlock, don't fuss. I won't go looking for guards to tackle, if you don't go all fussbudget at me if I tackle the ones that come my way."

"Fussbudget?" he almost squalled, then cut the volume back. "I do not 'fussbudget.' Which is a noun, not a verb, I'll have you know."

"Horrors. I verbed a noun. The world shall end." She risked a glance over her shoulder, smiling to see him leaning with shoulders propped against the far wall, arms crossed, for all the world like a sulky boy outside the Headmaster's office.

He scowled—then, as he met her eye, the scowl broke up, and almost turned to a smile, before he forced it down again.

She almost didn't realize she'd tightened her hold on Mycroft's hand, until he flinched. Her attention shot back to him. "Sherlock…"

"What?"

"His pain reflex. I jarred his IV by mistake and he registered it." She studied the pale, splotched face. "I can't tell if there are any REM patterns, yet. But—I think he's beginning to come back." She caressed the hand in hers…then smiled, as slim fingers weakly curved around hers.

"He's reacting." Sherlock had come close. He peered over her head, one hand gripping her shoulder much too tight.

"It's likely only reflex right now," she said, softly. "Like touching the inside of a baby's palm."

"But it's more than we've seen before."

"Yes. We'll make sure the nurses record that when we go. Dr. Lund will be pleased."

"We're not going to stay?"

She sighed. "No, Sherlock. He's improving. We can't rush that. What we're going to do is go home." She stood, tucked Mycroft's hand back at his side, then stepped away, gathering her tote and slipping from the room, determined to give Sherlock a few moments with his brother. She flagged the nurse who'd brought the supplies and took the time to update her, making sure their observations were noted on Mycroft's records.

When Sherlock came out, she waited for him to reach her, then said, "I still have something to give you."

He nodded almost invisibly. "Yes. Walk to Tom's Kitchen and talk there?"

"No. Cab to the lab at Bart's."

"So secretive, Molly?"

She considered the repercussions of handing Sherlock a hypodermic in a public place and being noticed. "I think you'll agree with me."

They were silent on the trip down the elevator, and as quiet in the cab. At first Molly found it uncomfortable, raising twitchy memories of the months and years of working with him in perpetual embarrassment, hoping to be noticed, and dreading it, too. After a bit, though, she relaxed. Things had changed. She no longer felt as invisible as she once had—nor as painfully exposed when things went wrong between them, either. As a result she could bear the silence in comfort. She was no less aware of them than she'd ever been, she thought—but now it was different. More like sharing a cab with a feral cat that had started to trust. She noted ever shift, every restless uneasiness, and found herself smiling a little.

Had he been as nervous as she had been back before his death? No. She couldn't believe that. But this entire situation with Mycroft had him on edge, strung tight, and she could read it in him, even in the dark, surrounded by the hum and honk of London traffic.

They walked together into St. Barts, matching their paces as best a short woman and a tall man could. Molly fished in her tote and found the lab keys, opened the door, flicked on the light without even looking, and scurried to one of the central lab tables. She tipped the entire tote out, pawing rapidly until she found the hypodermic, which she offered him without comment.

Sherlock came to full alert. "My-my, Molly. Where did you find this?"

"It's what the guard dropped right before he panicked and ran. It was under Mycroft's bed."

"And you didn't hand it in to the nurses or to MI5? Molly-Mouse is becoming quite the little rebel! I see I've been a bad influence on you."

"I don't trust them," she said, bluntly, refusing to be teased. "If a guard was turned, there could be more."

"A guard and a nurse," he said, absently. "The one who screamed and set you man running." He turned the slim hypo over and over, frowning at it. "Nothing to identify it. Can you tell me anything?"

"It's an insulin hypo, finest Stub's grade—as thin as they come. Short needle length. Smallest volume, too: 1ml. Preloaded. No marker to say what's in it."

"You think he was going to inject Mycroft with this?"

"No. I think he was going to inject it into the IV, close to the needle and tape, where a bit of seep happens anyway. With a needle this fine there's often no obvious sign of tampering anyway: the tube seals itself when the needle is withdrawn."

"Any ideas what's in it?"

She shook her head. "Too many ideas, would be more like it."

"So this is what you want tested?"

"Yes. And it's got to be a pro lab—and not my lab. Go through Greg Lestrade. Or send it to one of the other hospitals-just be sure you preserve the chain of evidence. Don't' leave any holes or gaps. Make it official, but don't let Mr. Beemish's people work on it."

He arched his brows. "I do know how this is done, Molly."

"You know how it's done on your side—even if you and John do seem to spend as much time playing silly buggers with evidence as anything. I know how the hospital makes sure chains of evidence are intact. It's not the same thing."

He studied her, a frown growing in his eyes—and for the first time in weeks she felt herself flush under his gaze.

"Were you always so fierce? Tackling spies, taking charge of things? Scolding me?" He snorted, then. "I don't think so. I could hardly have failed to notice." He set the hypo gently on the table, and began a slow, contemplative pace around her, studying her as if she were an unusual crime scene.

She shivered, and frowned at him. "Stop it, Sherlock. I'm not a blood stain or a paint chip. I'm not a clue." As he tried to circle her, she pivoted, trying to keep him in front of her.

"I don't treat you like a sample or a chip!" he protested, still pacing.

"Yes. Yes, you do."

"Molly, do hold still. You're being difficult."

"I'm being human." He kept walking, and she was feeling dizzy. "I don't  _want_ you peering at me like that."

"I would have said otherwise, a few years ago," he said, seeming almost not to notice his own comment. "Back then it was new hair, new dress, new lipstick… What's changed?" The worst part was he sounded curious—but only curious. He was being "Sherlock" at his strange and alien best.

She clenched her teeth. "I grew out of it, all right? Please stop walking around me. You're making me giddy." She veered away from him, going to lean on the lab table, trying to force her stomach to settle. "I'm sorry. I get carsick, too, sometimes."

"Poor coordination between the eye and the inner ear," he said, standing where she'd left him.

"Probably. But it doesn't take many spins around to make me feel bad." She collected the hypo from the table top. "I'll put this in the sample refrigerator. You can have one of Greg's people pick it up tomorrow. Give me a ring so I know who's coming, and don't send them over between eleven and two."

"Your interview, then, is it?"

"Second at Cameron."

"The forensic program?"

"Right."

"How many more interviews?"

"Hard to say, isn't it? More is better. As long as they're still talking to me, there's hope." She slipped a band of tape around the hypo, labeled it with the date and her name, then crossed the room, putting the little tube out of sight where the other lab staff wouldn't easily find it. She crossed back and began piling her possessions back in her tote: Kindle, Feminax bottle, leggings and tank for the gym, wallet, discreet pack of tampons, hair brush, spare hair ties, a pair of gloves…

"No wonder you need such a large bag."

She darted a look at him and realized he was still where he'd been when she pulled away from him, standing almost frozen in place, hands clasped behind his back. He had startlingly good posture: he seemed almost to hang from a string at the top of his head. She risked a smile. "If Batman were a woman he wouldn't need a utility belt—he'd have a tote."

Humor flashed. "I didn't see a Bat-arang anywhere in that."

"I shoot hair ties, instead. Always prepared."

The two struggled to keep straight faces, then dissolved into giggles. When they recovered, he met her eyes. He looked confused—as confused as she'd ever seen him. Between mysteries, research, and his own social failures, she'd seen him look confused more often than he'd probably wish to know. "You…" His voice faded, hesitant.

"Yes?"

"You've become as valuable to me as John Watson." Every inflection made it clear he found that as peculiar a thing to be saying as "I have accidentally swallowed the alligator," or "Please don't let the ocean out, it's not been fed yet."

She nearly laughed. For so long she'd imagined scenes straight out of romances. Sherlock Holmes would swear he loved her, and her only. That he couldn't live without her. That he dreamed of her. That she looked beautiful in a dress, or that her hair shone in the sunlight. He'd compare her to jewels, or flowers, or legendary beauties. Hell, she thought, I'd have settled for "you look nice today—want to snog?"

If she'd been in love with Sherlock, though, and not just the idea of Sherlock, she'd have known—only Sherlock could say he'd started to love her, at least a little, by comparing her to John Watson—and only Sherlock could look so puzzled and unaware of what he actually meant.

It wasn't what she'd dreamed of. She frankly wasn't sure what it could become. With her luck it meant that, like John, he'd drag her from pillar to post, insult her without a passing thought, experiment on her when it suited his needs, and let her go years thinking him dead. But it was better than an imaginary relationship with a fictional Sherlock.

She smiled, and nodded. "Yeah. I think that means we're friends."

He blinked. "I don't have friends."

She ambled toward the door of the lab, grinning to herself, tote slung casually over her shoulder. "Yeah, you do."

"Only John—and he's mad at me now."

"Which is why he busted his bum to help you with Mycroft. Give it a rest, Sherlock. You've got friends. You just see—but don't  _observe."_

They laughed all the way out to the turn-around, where Molly caught a cab home.

Sherlock, however, walked back to 221B Baker Street. It was a long walk—and he still hadn't figured out what he thought or felt by the time he arrived.

 


	13. The Noble Bachelor

John Watson, eyes crusted with sleep and enthusiasm at low ebb, looked at Sherlock incredulously. "You stole my flat key, didn't you?"

"I wouldn't say stole. Borrowed. Briefly. Here, have a cup of coffee."

"You  _copied_ my flat key—you stole my flat key and you copied it."

"Not so much stole as found, John. And I had it back to you in next to no time. Drink your coffee while it's hot—I've got a lot for us to do today."

"You stole my key, you copied it, and you broke into my flat. I could have been  _busy_ , you know. I could have had a guest. I might have been pleasantly occupied."

"Don't be ridiculous. Dr. Marston is out of town for the next week, your luck has never been all that good, and I know you: you weren't cheating on the good Mary while she's away." Sherlock ignored John's squall of protest, pointedly pushing the stoneware mug across the counter. "Coffee, John. Black and bitter, just the way you like it. Drink up, shower, and get dressed. We're going to the Royal Marsden."

That was enough to gain John's attention. "Is Mycroft worse?" he asked. He absently grabbed the mug and took a deep swallow, making worried-beagle faces over the brim.

"Actually, he may be doing better. I've arranged to meet with Dr. Lund when he makes his rounds at," he checked his watch, "Eight-thirty. My goodness, John, you'd better hurry—that's only forty-five minutes to shower, shave, dress, and get over there. Drink down, and I'll call a cab while you're dressing."

"Sherlock, I've got a practice—"

"—and today is your half-day and you don't open till afternoon. We'll go to the Royal Marsden to see Lund, then pop around to New Scotland Yard to pick up Lestrade, then over to St. Barts before Molly has to go to her interview. We should be done in time for you to grab some lunch and make it back for your first appointment."

John closed his eyes, the very picture of patience in a snit. "You do this just to drive me crazy, don't you?"

"I would not sink so low… Well, I would, actually. If I were bored. Or you made it easy. Or—but that's not the point. I'm not doing it to drive you crazy  _this_  time. I need your help. I want someone with me who knows what Lund's saying, and then I need you and Lestrade to secure a piece of evidence Molly and I, er, collected last night."

Sucking down the last of the coffee, John studied his friend. "Greg can't manage that himself?" he suggested. "It's not exactly heavy lifting…or is it? What, did the two of you heist an elephant or something insane like that?"

"Hypodermic. One of Mycroft's guards tried to inject him. The man was startled and ran, dropping the syringe. I'm going to have Lestrade's people do the analysis because I no longer know who to trust in MI5 and MI6." Sherlock refused to meet John's eyes. Instead he drew a small chef's knife from the knife block on the counter and flipped it, catching it delicately by the back of the blade, then flipped it again, catching its hilt. Flip-flip. Flip-flip. He made it look effortless. Like many things he did, it was nothing of the sort. "I want to be sure I know what's in it, and I want to be sure no one stops me."

"Good God, yes," John agreed, now fully in accord. "I don't see what I can do to help, but…"

"You can always sign the evidence bag. Fill out a report. Help build a paper chain." Flip-flip. Flip-flip. He could have been even more obnoxious and performed the flips while watching John, trusting only his peripheral vision and muscle-knowledge to catch the flying blade. It did not suit him to meet John's eyes. "I would estimate you're now down to thirty-five minutes, John. Shower?"

"Erm…right. Of course. Just give me a few minutes," John said, and hurried off, his familiar worn terry robe flapping around his shanks.

Sherlock put the knife away, and drew out his mobile phone, quickly typing in text.

_What progress, Wiggins? SH_

_Bella & Mad Georgie outside . Kiki's got teh Royal Marsden front. I got no one 4 back or sides. Workin on it._

_Do. Let me know as you get people in place. Plan on watching in shifts. This will not be over soon._

_Will-do, boss._

Within seconds he'd pulled up another contact.

_News? SH_

_No, Sherlock. Stop nagging. I'll let you know as soon as I have anything. I've got an appointment with old Mohammed Julalipur in an hour. He likes to show off, and he knows everything that's happening in the Muslim business community. Don't rush me, I'm working on it._

_Someone tried to kill Mycroft again last night._

_If you expect me to weep, you've badly mistaken my relationship with Mycroft, dear._

_If you expect me not to, you've mistaken mine._ Sherlock hit send before he fully realized what he'd written. He stared at the text, wishing he could call the words back. Feeling that emotionally naked in front of Irene was not good—feeling that naked in front of himself was worse.

Caring was not an advantage. He knew that; he and Mycroft had both learned it young—and he and Mycroft had long tried to convince themselves they applied it to each other, as well as to outsiders. Crashing face-first into the lie was never pleasant.

Irene wasn't slow enough to miss the opening, either.

_How touching. Fraternal affection between the Holmes Boys! I doubt the Ice Man would approve, but, still, it's sweet._

_You have to stop trusting Moriarty's evaluations. He always did misunderstand us._  And that, too, was telling too much. He didn't want Irene to start questioning her understanding of Mycroft. His brother was already facing death. Losing his masks, though? That would be like sunlight to a vampire: Mycroft would burn under Irene's avid, prying eyes.  _Keep me informed. Oh—and don't trust our contacts with MI6. At least some are moles._

_I don't even trust the ones who aren't. Maybe especially the ones who aren't. I can work with a proper mole. An honest agent can be lethal, and for the stupidest reasons._

_Save your wit for another time. Just keep on it, and keep in touch._

He could hear John had finished his shower. Sherlock checked his watch, estimated five minutes for shaving and general toiletries, and another five to ten to dress. He called for a cab, then texted Lestrade.

_We'll be by to pick you up around 9:30/10:00. Be ready. SH_

_Ok. I can clear the time, but—you sure Donovan can't pick it up?_

_Certain. Consider it a sign of my high esteem._

_Yeah, yeah. Tell me another one, I could use more laughs._

_If you fail to recognize the truth in that statement, it's your failure, not mine, Detective Inspector._

_Don't get your knickers in a twist, Sherlock. Ok. I'm flattered. But I gotta say, it's a hell of a way to flatter a guy: haul him off the job to pick up one piece of evidence._

_I trust you. I trust you entirely—with evidence and with more._

_You going soft on me?_

_By no means._

_Mmmm-hmmm. You know you're a bit of a flake, Holmes?_

_I've been told on occasion. How are things working out with your date from the other evening?_

_Too early to say. She's going out for dinner with an old boyfriend this evening, but it didn't come across as a game-ender… she says accountants aren't her thing. So, it's early days._

_You should be careful. She's got a lover in Leeds under a restraining order, and a bad track record over the past three years. You're her fourth new relationship since April, and she's juggling two others who are still active._

_Sherlock? Are you giving me dating advice? Because if you are, you gotta know you're way outside of your field of expertise._

_Point taken, Detective Inspector. John's almost ready. We'll see you at NSY._

_Yeah. I'll be ready. And Sherlock? Just call me Lestrade. Detective Inspector's just too damned wanky for texting._

_Later, DI Lestrade._

_Jerk._

Sherlock was working on something to cap that with, rather than lose the sparring contest, when John came out. The older man was dressed for work, in brown pants, a cream and brown checked shirt, and a dark chocolate corduroy jacket. He shrugged on his shooting jacket and grabbed an umbrella, and the two headed for the door just as the cab beeped its arrival.

At the Royal Marsden, Lund confirmed Mycroft's increased responsiveness with cautious pleasure, expressed both dismay and frustration at the most recent attempt to harm his patient, and ongoing annoyance at having to work around constraints imposed by Beemish, MI5, MI6, and Sherlock. Sherlock was relieved at the confirmation, in agreement regarding the dismay, and annoyed at the annoyance.

"It's not a situation I created, Dr. Lund, nor is it one I can ameliorate. Even if his heath was strong enough to risk a transfer to another hospital—and you assure me it is not—I am actually quite content with the care he's received from you and from the hospital's staff. As for Beemish and his people: blame Mycroft. They're not  _my_ sort of thing at all."

Lung gave him a sour look. "And your sort of thing is?" he grumbled.

"Ah! Um,—you don't want him to answer that. You really, really don't," John cut in quickly. "He makes med students look sane. So, Mycroft's showing some improvement, then? What do you expect over the next few days?"

The conversation quickly headed into dense thickets of medical vocabulary that Sherlock chose not to wade through. He already knew the crucial bits: Molly's observations had been correct, and Mycroft was showing increased responsiveness. His blood work indicated that his body was, slowly, winning the war against the CA-MRSA. Dr. Lund was cautiously optimistic. That was enough—and not what Sherlock had come for anyway. As the two medical professionals proceeded to burrow into the comfort of medical jargon, Sherlock eased himself back and over to the nurses' station, where a nurse was sitting, bent over a clipboard of paperwork. He leaned his elbow on the counter and studied the floor.

He could see three likely guards from where he stood, and spotted four cameras added to the hospital's normal assortment. He was betting on several more. Without turning, he murmured to the nurse holding down the station, "Are you one of Beemish's bright young things?"

"Mmm," she said, equally quietly.

"What do you think of the set-up here, then?"

"Couldn't say, sir," she said, still softly. "This is only my first year as a field agent, sir. Wouldn't presume to comment on my superiors."

"You'll never get anywhere with that attitude, Sister. Mycroft would be disgusted. He'd expect you to at least venture guess."

"Then I'd guess he'd be happy to know you're making sure we know you're watching us, Mr. Holmes, sir."

Sherlock snorted with amusement. "A sharp one, I see. I'll be sure to tell Mycroft if…when he recovers. He's always looking for sharp new talent."

"Thank you, sir. Will that be all, sir?"

"Yes. I think that's covered it."

"Sir? One more thing…"

"Yes?"

"Ask for Averil, Denver, Jameson, and Hansen to be put on guard duty, in shifts. They've all served with the  _other_ Mr. Holmes, and they're not happy he's been hit once, and almost hit a second time. The men Beemish has assigned were good, so far as we knew—but the names I gave you are Mr. Mycroft's people, and they're angry."

He turned and looked at her, startled. He automatically ticked over the details: neat uniform, hands with give-away signs of regular martial arts practice, lack of any jewelry, tick-tick-tick, the total picture mounted.

She was young, but radiated professionalism. She was pretty, too—East Indian, with big dark eyes that burned with a fire Mycroft seemed to inspire in some of his subordinates, in spite of his own cool professional aura. That, however, could be faked.

"And I should trust you, why?"

"Because you can look them up, Mr. Holmes. Their records are available—and your contacts could give you access even if they weren't." She met his gaze without faltering.

He nodded, pensively. "Good reason. I'll give it some consideration. Your name? So I can recommend you to Mycroft later?"

"Amy Trapper, sir."

He nodded, saying no more—but he would remember her. She'd be useful to Mycroft—and, someday, he might find her useful himself. Knowing people inside Mycroft's secret world was occasionally worthwhile, especially the good ones. He then checked the time, took a moment to relay a request to William to pull up the records of the agents Trapper had suggested, review them, and assign them if he thought them sound—and then collected John and headed off to pick up Lestrade and before proceeding on to St. Barts.

Molly was clearly pleased they'd arrived as early as they had. She was dressed for her interview, and Sherlock was glad he'd asked Mycroft to recommend a family friend to help her with her fashion choices. She wore loose, elegant slubbed-silk trousers in dark cinnamon brown, a cream jersey in brushed cotton that draped fluidly over her torso, and a gold and garnet circle pin and matching earrings. Her hair was clubbed in a doubled-over braid, and secured at the nape with a polished wood hair clasp. She wore only a trace of makeup. None of that mattered to Sherlock, and much of it was lost on him—cluttery information he didn't need to solve mysteries. He did, however, know what a woman "of his class" was supposed to look like, and Molly was now dressed to pass, no longer calling attention to herself by choices that too obviously tried too hard. She would be spared embarrassment, and judged for her professional skills, not her social class—or lack thereof. The result was all he had hoped for.

Molly retrieved the hypodermic from the sample refrigerator and gave it to Lestrade. Lestrade slipped it into an evidence bag, and gave Molly a clipboard of paperwork to fill out to add to the paper trail. He and John likewise filled out forms. Sherlock was put to work recording his observations from the night before, and Molly's presentation of the hypo to him and their actions after. The paper-trail was being laid.

Lestrade and John finished first, and made small talk with Molly while they waited for Sherlock to finish. He was in no rush: it provided an opportunity to watch them…study them. John complimented Molly on her outfit. She blushed, echoing traces of her shyness from years before, but still clearly pleased. Lestrade chimed in, and she dimpled. The two men flanked her, one to each side, both kind, solicitous, and admiring.

Sherlock weighed it all carefully, thinking the whole time. Only when he was sure of his choice did he scrabble a last few sentences on the form he'd been given, race off his signature and the date, and rise, handing it all to Lestrade.

"There. Done. Molly, what are your plans this evening?"

All three looked at Sherlock like he'd grown a second head.

"I'm going to sit with Mycroft, Sherlock."

"No. We'll be getting new guards in and I want to oversee them myself. And you've been overworking yourself. I think you should have dinner with Lestrade, here. He's been stood up by his date, who's off making eyes at a chartered accountant from Chandler's Cross, so he's at liberty. You're free; he's free. Why not make the best of it? So: dinner, maybe a movie. You deserve a treat. What about it?"

"Wha-? Holmes, you arse," Lestrade growled, scowling at Sherlock. "For God's sake!"

John, at the same time, simply smacked Sherlock upside the head, snapping, "You stupid pillock!"

Molly looked at him. She looked at him for a bit too long. At last she said, "Are you trying to set me up with a date, Sherlock?"

"Well, you're not doing it for yourself," he pointed out. "And Lestrade's a good sort. Solid, sensible, kind. A good husband, by all reports. Not, perhaps, the quickest CPU in the inventory, but he gets there eventually."

"Yes. He's quite nice, I agree…and if he ever decides to ask me out, I may even say yes," Molly snapped. "But not like this."

Lestrade and John both looked like they had several volumes worth of things they'd like to add—and didn't dare. Their eyes swung back and forth between Sherlock and Molly, reminding Sherlock of nothing so much as the eyes of half-wild, half-spoiled Shetland ponies at the gymkhanas of his childhood. If a bird had flown past the window he had no doubt both men would buck and bolt.

Sherlock sighed with exasperation. "Why  _not_  like this? It's what friends _do_ , isn't it? Match-make? Fix each other up? What part of this am I failing to understand?"

"Just bloody everything," Lestrade muttered. John growled, "Sherlock, you don't ask people out for dates with other people. You ask for yourself."

Sherlock looked at him like he'd lost all his marbles and perhaps a few of someone else's as well. "Ask Molly out myself? Why would I do that? John, I  _like_  Molly. I'd no more ask her out to dinner than I'd let her go out with…with…with  _Mycroft!"_

Lestrade's face seemed to melt and buckle like warm wax, as he fought back laughter. John didn't manage to hold it back at all—he gave a sharp, loud bark, and then dissolved in giggles. Soon both men were leaning on the lab table, howling with laughter—and, Sherlock suspected, just short of pissing themselves.

Molly, however, had buried her face in her hands, and her shoulders were shaking. It was hard to tell over Lestrade's whoops and John's cackles, but Sherlock thought he heard a faint, high, sobbing wail.

Frustrated, uncertain, and suddenly afraid, he stepped closer. One finger traced her hand.

"Molly?" She shook her head, frantically. He was sure she was crying, now. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I got it wrong again."

Her hands seemed flutter, reposition themselves, and he was met by the complicated sight of tears and laughter both shining in her eyes. She partially covered her mouth, but got out, "No, Sherlock, it's all right. It's not a bad thing, it's just such a  _Sherlock_  thing, that's all." She choked on a giggle, then—to his surprise, and apparently to John and Lestrade's as well, she suddenly stood on tiptoes, kissed him on the cheek, and said, "Don't worry about it, Sherlock. Just—next time you want to set up a date, set it up for yourself. Now, I've got to run or I'll miss my interview." She grabbed a purse—a small, neat purse quite unlike her usual tote—and darted out the door, still laughing as she called back, "Laters! Wish me luck!"

He watched her go, then turned to John. "But I don't even  _believe_  in luck…"

When he still hadn't gotten anything but hysterical laughter out of the two men five minutes later, he stalked out to the turn-around entry and stood sulking in the doorway, watching the rain pour down. He refused to turn as he heard John's footsteps approach. "I could have left you to get your own cab," he grumbled.

"Yeah, you could have. But then you'd have had to sulk all the way home alone." John sounded almost sympathetic. "Look, I still have time for lunch. Hungry?"

"God, yes. I'd kill for a curry."

Later, as John gasped and panted over a scarlet bowl of rogan josh, he asked, "Why did you do it? I mean, really? I know you. You thought you were accomplishing something. What was it?"

"Set up two friends on a date," Sherlock insisted, slurping a spoonful of rice and lamb korma. "Is that so impossible to believe?"

John paused, looked Sherlock up, then down, and said, firmly, "Yes. Completely impossible. You'd sooner join Mrs. Hudson's Little Theater group and try out for Yum-Yum in  _Mikado._ "

Sherlock barely managed not to exhale his korma through his nose. A few seconds later, after some gulping and some napkin work, he looked at his friend in reproach. "Was that necessary, John? Was it kind?"

"No. But it was true. And it made you laugh."

Sherlock grudgingly shrugged and rolled his eyes to concede John was right. He didn't say it, though. That would have been too much for John to expect of him.

John didn't appear to mind. Instead he just asked, again, "So. What were you really up to?"

Sherlock sighed, set both hands flat on the table, and looked at him in frustration. "You're not going to give up, are you?"

"Not in a million years."

The hands flew from the table in exasperation—and in surrender. "All right. All right—but no laughing."

"Sorry. Not a promise I can make. Tell you what: I won't stand on the seat and announce it to the rest of the restaurant. That's a promise I can keep."

Sherlock grimaced. "And that's your best offer?"

"Afraid so."

"You're a hard man, John Watson."

"War does that. Now for God's sake,  _tell!_ "

Sherlock sighed, prodded his korma despondently, and mumbled something.

"What's that? Couldn't hear you."

"I said, she could have been killed last night."

"She wasn't, though."

"Yes, but she  _could_  have been. Mycroft and I—we aren't  _safe._ "

"And a Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard is? I've got news for you, sunshine: Greg's no more safe than you are."

"He's better fit to take care of her." Sherlock said, stubbornly. "He's safer, he's steadier, and he'll…take care of her. His first wife was an idiot. He'd be good for Molly."

John leaned back and studied his friend, eyes suddenly both serious and curious. "And…you wouldn't?"

"Of course I wouldn't!" Sherlock snarled. "It was always impossible. She was an idiot to even want it. I'm  _not_ a nice man, John."

"No. No, you're not," John agreed, calmly. "You're a right bugger a lot of the time."

"Exactly. I'm not made for that kind of thing. I may be smart, but I'm just short of mental: ask Donovan if you've got any doubts."

"No need. I've roomed with you. You're correct on all counts."

"So—we're in agreement. She was a fool to be all—you know," Sherlock said, fluttering his hands as though shaking off pretty pink sequins and Hello-Kitty confetti. "She was fixated, then. But now we're getting along better, I thought it would be a good thing to help her along. You know. Find someone else. Something that could work."

"Like Greg."

"Exactly. I considered you, but you do seem to be quite determined to stick with this Marston woman, and the chemistry between Molly and the good Detective Inspector was better when I watched you all today."

This time it was John's turn to clap a napkin to his mouth and attempt not to spray. "Wait-what? You dragged me along on this just to make a final decision about who to set Molly up with?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Well, it's not as though we absolutely needed you to witness the transfer of evidence."

John shoved his dishes aside, crossed his arms on the table, and face-planted. "You're lethal, Holmes. It's a wonder anyone survives you."

"That's my point. I'd prefer that Molly live."

John rolled his face up, and peered over the top line of his crossed arms. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Let me give you a piece of advice. Don't set your friends up. You don't have the knack for it. And…"

"What?"

"And the next time? Ask Molly Hooper out for yourself. And God help her if she says yes."

 


	14. The Smartest of the Yard

Molly came back to the lab from her interview bubbling with optimism. She was pretty sure she'd interviewed well, but, better still, she'd been introduced to a Doctor Francesca Bollud, one of the best forensic researchers in the country, and a specialist in toxicology. The opportunity had been too perfect to pass up, and she'd spent almost an hour of her time discussing a possible ID for the contents of the syringe she'd found the day before. It had thrilled her to learn her hunch was not only possible, but quite a practical choice under the circumstances.

And, she thought, it was a double win. First, she was actually pretty proud of herself for thinking of it and having at least formed a strong hypothesis. It was good, practical forensic thinking. Second, the folks at Cameron might not be impressed—but on the other hand, they might be quite impressed.

On coming back she took the time to search for and print out a set of papers Dr. Bollud had recommended, and then write up notes for Sherlock to review. By the time she was done, there were about two hours left before she intended to leave for the night. She was just getting ready to leave her office and go to the main lab when her mobile phone chimed for an incoming text message. Slipping it out of her purse, she glanced at the screen, and felt a flutter of embarrassment when she saw it was Greg Lestrade.

_Molly—Greg here. You got a minute?_

She considered letting it go, but that didn't seem fair. It wasn't Greg's fault Sherlock had put them both on the spot the way he had. And she liked Greg Lestrade.

_Yes. I'm back at the lab._

_How'd the interview go?_

_Don't know. I was a bit wired._

_No wonder. Damn Sherlock._

_He was just being himself. No big. I'm used to him by now. XD_

_You sure? John and I want you to know—we'll kick him arse over tit if you want us to._

She gave a snort of laughter. She wasn't sure who'd win that sort of fight: Lestrade was a trained officer, John was Army to the core, but Sherlock could be insanely wily. But it was sweet of them to offer. She didn't think she could recall a time when anyone wanted to watch over her. As a result of years on her own, though, she could take care of herself. Best not to get them started with the Big Guy Protection thing. And, really, Sherlock had been being sweet, too—in his own way.

_No. This time I think he really wanted to help. Not his usual show-off stuff._

_Yeah. Um, about that…_

_?_

_Just because Sherlock thought of it doesn't mean it's a bad idea. You want to go out tonight?_

She had to read that several times before she was sure she wasn't somehow confused about something. Even then—

_You mean it?_

_Yeah._

_This isn't some kind of big-brother, let's be nice to poor wet Molly thing you and John dreamed up?_

_No. I mean it._   _Dinner. Movie. You know—a date._

She shivered a little. The thought of Greg Lestrade as a date? Oh, my. And to think she'd been half-wishing he hadn't found a new girl just a few days ago.  _Wow_!  _Um—Chinese? Italian?_

_Chinese, Italian, curry, chop house, fish and chips—your pick. I'm easy._

_Oh? I can't say I'd noticed. XD_

_Try me later, you'll see._

_Are you flirting with me?_

_Trying damned hard._

Her heart gave a giant wump-bump, and she giggled a bit frantically…then decided she'd better be honest fast, or she'd be in the same kind of mess she'd been in with Sherlock, before.

_I'm not very good at flirting, Greg. I get all stupid and say dumb things._

_You know what? That may bug Mr. Genius, but most of us don't give a damn. Put your foot in your mouth. I like you anyway._

Her world seemed to tumble around her. Was it really that easy? Could it possibly be this simple? He liked her, he didn't mind that she was a muddled mess sometimes—and he knew her, after all these years, even if not well. He couldn't be unaware of just how awkward she could be.

He'd said he liked her. And he was flirting with her. On purpose.

_Molly? You still there?_

_Yeah. Um…trying to think through the blush. It slows me down a bit._

_Oof. That's pretty sexy. Pretty Molly, all pink and nervous._

_Oh, stop it! I won't be able to type at all._

_Do you really want me to stop? I don't want to make you feel weird._

What was she supposed to say to that?

What did she  _want_  to say to that?

Maybe what she really needed to know what who she wanted to be…and who she wanted to become. She really liked who she'd been turning into lately: applying to med school, standing up to Sherlock without wrecking their friendship, fighting that horrible guard, finding the hypodermic. What would the "new normal" Molly do?

She'd tell the truth, and go on from there.

_I don't know the answer to that. I really don't. But I'm willing to try to figure it out if you are. Dinner sounds great. Movie, too. Come on over to the lab after work and we'll talk about it._

_Great! I'm off at 5:00, but I can cut out a bit earlier if you like._

_I'm here till at least 6:00—I'm trying to make up for time lost to the interview and the stuff with you guys this morning. So come over when you can, I'll be here._

_Ok. See you._

_You, too._

When the phone didn't spool up any more messages, she went into a predictable panic. She was dreadful at dates. She wasn't dressed for it. She never knew what to say. Her only small talk was body parts and tissue analysis… Oh, wait. Greg's small talk would be body parts and crime scene analysis.

Obviously they were a match made in heaven. Or in Sherlock's meddling mind.

She giggled again, only to have Nigel hear her and call in, "'What's up, Moll? Good LOLcat?"

"No."

"XKCD?"

"No."

"Onion article?"

"No."

There was silence, and then the creak of a rolling lab stool. Nigel, scooting backward like a squid, careened and caromed down the aisle to Molly's office door and peered in, lying nearly on his back with the seat support pushed almost horizontal. He had glasses…nice, round mad scientist glasses and a mop of ginger frizzle hair. It made his various comic expressions all the more comic. He peered at her, owlishly. "Okay. Confess. You got drunk on the way back from the interview."

"No, Nige."

"Not even a little tiny one-pub pub-crawl?"

"No, Nige! Good God!"

He spun the stool, rose, performed a complex flip that turned the stool back-to-front, and sat again, this time backwards in the seat with his elbows on the backrest. "You're up to something, my little Molecule. I can see it by the gleam in your eye. Tell Uncle Nigel."

"You're younger than me."

"But wise in the ways of the world."

She sputtered. "Nige, your areas of expertise are where to get the best chips within ten minutes walk of St. Barts, perfect recall of every Terry Pratchett novel ever written, including footnotes, and the complete life history of Amelia Pond, the Girl Who Waited. Oh, and you learned how to tie a bow tie because 'cosplay' and 'bow ties are cool.' I don't think any of that gives you insight into my private life."

"Whoo-hooo! 'Private life!' New territory! Let me guess—that guy Sherl tried to set you up with this morning decided it wasn't a half-bad idea? Oh, my God, your face! I was right! I don't believe it! I was right! Molly-m'Golly has a date with Mr. Hunky Cop!" He spun the stool around squealing "Eeeeeeeee!" like a fan girl at a Star Trek opening. He smacked his trainers on the lino, bringing his wild spin to a sudden stop. "When's the date?"

"Tonight! He's meeting me here after he gets off work."

"Eeeeee! I can't wait. I'll make fresh coffee and dig up a tube of biscuits so we can entertain properly."

"You'll  _disappear_ …or I'll tell Sherlock you want him to match-make for you, too."

"Well, hell, yeah. I mean, success on the first time out of the gate? He can yenta for me any day."

"Do you have any idea how often you convince me that you're proof Darwin was wrong?"

He blew her an affectionate kiss. "I knew you loved me. Seriously—if you want me to disappear when Mr. Hunky Cop shows up….well…"

"That's DI Hunky Cop to you, Nige. And, yeah, I'd really rather not have an audience while he and I figure out if we want korma, spaghetti and meatballs, or what."

"Hix Oyster and Chop, over on Greenhill Rents. Plenty of choices, a lot of them good whether your man's a foody or a meat-potato-two-veg guy. Price is a bit of a yip, but not an oh-my-God. Nice enough to feel like you're dating, not scarfing student stodge."

"Whoa—good idea, Nige! Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe Darwin didn't mess up. That's a survival skill if I ever saw one. Now all I have to do is figure out what to wear, and how to change before he gets here."

"D'oh. No, you don't. You're in your interview suit, Moll. Nice hair. Nice outfit. Any nicer and you'd scare him off, 'specially since he's going to be coming over straight off work himself."

Molly stopped, and looked down. "Yeah! Wow! Yeah, I am!" She gave an amused little bounce, grinning. "That means all I have to do is redo my hair!"

Nige rolled his eyes. "Wrong, wrong, wrong. It's at that nice leaky point with whispy bits ladies work hours to fake. Leave it. Grab your purse and your DI and live a little."

"Are you sure you're straight? Because if you're not straight I know some really nice guys I can try to set you up with."

"Nah, I'm just a geek. It's a sexuality in its own right." He grinned. "We're hero-sexuals."

"What, you do it in phone booths?"

"No, blue police call boxes."

"Riiiiiiight." She laughed, and laughed—not because it was funny, but because Nigel was nice and she didn't need to worry about dressing up, and Lestrade was coming over to take her out to dinner. She and Nigel decided it was such a good afternoon that they lined up a play list of big-voice female vocalists like Emelie Sande, Adele, and Rihana on Nigel's computer. Soon enough they were doing all the clean-up, close-down, lock-up protocols while singing their lungs out, trying to out-Adele Adele. Nigel wasn't half bad. As they finished up the computer switched into Adele doing "Skyfall." Nigel dropped into a solid but sultry baritone and began riffing croony girl-backup harmonies, tossing torch onto Adele's scorch. Molly grinned and began a slinky, hokey Bond-girl stalk-and-shimmy.

Which was, of course, when Sherlock and John walked in. Had to be. It was the patented Molly Hooper Karma. Greg would have been better. Greg would have laughed. She'd heard his laugh—it was big and warm and happy.

Sherlock stared like a goosed spinster, and John looked hideously embarrassed for her—which only made it worse.

She was frozen in mid-grind. She could feel the joy leaching out of everything.

Sherlock was still and icy cold, whether with shock or disgust she couldn't tell. He cocked his head almost microscopically, and said, "Planning on backup as a club dancer if you don't make it into med school, Molly?"

"Well, bugger-all, if it ain't the vicar and his wife," Nigel drawled. "There goes that knees-up. Hide the booze and get out the chamomile tea, Moll. No more hijinks till Prunes and Prisms are gone."

Sherlock's eyes went nova, and he shot a wicked glare at Nigel before drawling in his own stratospherically Oxbridge accent, "I see you're consorting with a closet furry, these days. Pity, but you can't claim I didn't try to do better for you, Molly."

"That's nothin' but the freak calling the geek weird," Nigel taunted. "Face it, Sherl, strip off the one-trick-pony carnival deduction act and you're just one more socially clueless wanker with good clothes and crappy manners. Welcome to the club. World's full of us."

"At least I have the good clothes," Sherlock snarled, edging into true tantrum.

The look Nigel returned was sweet with both victory and contentment. "Yeah, yeah. But I've got all the good songs, and the friends to sing 'em with."

Now it was Sherlock standing like a deer in the headlights, jaw slightly dropped. Molly and John exchanged panicky glances, unsure what to do that wouldn't summon up an Eldritch Horror so awful even Lovecraft couldn't have imagined it. Nigel, though, was in the moment, riding his own private wave. He met Sherlock's eyes with his own honey brown ones, googly glasses magnifying them and his ginger locks wild as his beloved Tom Baker's. "You're not going to hurt Moll," he said, almost amiably. "Not havin' it. Sorry."

"What's that? Sherlock, you on Molly's case again?"

Like characters in a bad "Murder at the Country House" tv special, everyone whirled to where Greg Lestrade stood in the doorway of the lab. He had on a well-worn soot black Burberry and had a plain black laptop case slung over one shoulder. He glanced apologetically at Molly, and said, "Sorry, Molly. Got off a bit sooner than expected and made good time on the way over. Is early a problem?"

Before he could return his attention to Sherlock and the brewing "incident," Molly realized what New Normal Molly should do. She took a deep breath, grinned back at Greg, and said, "Nope. Timing couldn't be better. Nige and I were just finishing up and having a bit of a sing-song and a knees up—it's been a good day. Nige is better than karaoke. Wait a minute while I do the last bit and we can be out of here."

"Don't worry about that, Moll," Nigel said. "I'll finish up here. Grab your coat and bag and push off."

Molly smiled and nodded. "Thanks, Nige. You're a sweetie." She started toward the coat hooks.

John, with something clear and comprehensible to do, said, "Oh, here. Let me help you with that." He snatched her coat and purse off the hook and held them, like an old-school gentleman. As she slipped into the coat he eased it over her shoulders and leaned in, whispering, "Sorry. Just caught off guard. Next time I'll do the baritone line, not that I'm any match for Nigel." He turned to open the door for her, only to find Lestrade already there, and holding out his arm.

Behind her, Sherlock said, in a flat voice, "She's going out with Lestrade, John. I think she can count on doors being opened without your help."

Lestrade, tucking her hand into the turn of his elbow, looked back over his shoulder. In a voice that was almost gentle, he said, "Been listening to you for years, now, Sherlock. I've learned to trust you when you tell me something. Thanks for the tip."

"Mere observation," Sherlock said, still sounding hollowed out. "It's logic, really. When you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true. Go. Have fun. Be good to her."

The two were halfway out the door when Molly turned back. "Sherlock? It's going to be at least a day till you get the test results back in, but I talked with one of the top forensic researchers at Cameron during my interview today. I had an idea, and we both think it's worth treating as a strong possibility. I think it's going to turn out to be botulinum or a botulinum derivative. There's a fair chance the guard was planning on killing Mycroft with Botox. I've put together some notes. They're on my desk. Be sure to pick them up before you go."

Molly wasn't quite sure how Greg managed, in a matter of minutes, to shift them from prim Victorian arm-in-arm to her with her arm around his waist, and him with his around her shoulders. It seemed to happen with lazy grace, and his grip on her was light, undemanding, and friendly as they walked north from to the chop house.

"Someone's trying to murder Mycroft?" he asked, casually, not losing the rhythm of his stride. "Not just regular chickenpox, then?"

"It looks that way. The chickenpox may have been natural, though the Oka strain makes me wonder if someone wasn't taking a shot in the dark. Oka strain gets past immunization sometimes. The staph almost certainly wasn't. And if I'm right, and the syringe your people have holds some form of botulinum toxin…that's just murder, plain and simple."

"Wouldn't it be obvious, though?"

"No. A low concentration fed into the IV might not be spotted even in a healthy patient. But a low concentration fed into the IV of a comatose patient with pneumonia? Look, if you already knew someone was bleeding to death from a gunshot wound, would you go looking for an anticoagulant in the blood that made the victim bleed out faster?"

"Probably not. Not without some evidence to make me look."

"And if the evidence was subtle? That's the thing: a low concentration of Botox would just do more of what the pneumonia was doing already. Most people who die of botulism die of reduced respiratory function. The muscles don't work as well, less air is brought in, circulation is failing… If the guard had managed to give Mycroft the shot without being caught, it wouldn't have been obvious what was happening, because he would have just appeared to get worse. And we're already afraid that's going to happen."

"Huh." His index finger tapped lightly on the tip of her shoulder, a restless drumming that felt like and established habit. "Would it show up in the blood work?"

"Yes and no. Yes, if you knew to test for it, or if you did thorough testing: mass spectrometer, NMR, IR, melting point. More, too. But we don't test for everything most of the time: it costs too much in time and money. Even with full testing—it takes incredibly small dilutions of botulinum to kill someone. Testing for trace elements can be finicky work."

"So the best way is to have a hint already, so you can—what? Aim more precisely from the start?"

"Yes."

"And if you don't have a hint, it may just be missed."

"If you were expecting the patient to die of reduced respiratory function and slow systemic failure anyway. Yeah."

They cut across West Smithfield, jogged over onto East Poultry Avenue, and headed for Charterhouse. It was dark already, and a damp mist hung lightly. Molly found herself easily and naturally slipping her arm into and under Greg's trench coat and leaning a bit closer, enjoying the sense of solid strength and mass. He was taller than John, slightly shorter than Sherlock, but more muscular and solid than either of them.

After awhile Greg said, "is it hard to get your hands on Botox?" She could almost hear wheels turning—not the screaming whir of thoughts at lightning speed that she associated with Sherlock, but something steadier, but no less purposeful.

"Dead simple," she said. "Easy to steal. Easy enough to find a crooked supplier. If you've got a crooked doctor to work with, you don't even have to break any laws."

"Well, right up till you murder someone," Greg pointed out.

"Yes," she replied.

 


	15. The British Government

_Greg?_

_L8R, John._

_Is this real or R U gaming Sherlock? [No response from Lestrade] I'm just going to keep on texting till you answer._

_Piss off. I'm snogging._

_LOL. Ne'mind. Kiss her once for me, you old hound…._

"And what does our good DI have to say?" Sherlock asked, as John grinned at the little glowing screen.

"Having a good date."

"Send our best to Molly, then." Sherlock's voice was crisp to the point of crackling.

John struggled to hold back an even bigger grin. "I think he's probably turned off his mobile, now."

At least, he thought, if Lestrade had any common sense he would have—and pitched it, along with Molly's, out the nearest window. After all, Sherlock liked texting, too. And unless John was flunking his advanced Holmesology, Sherlock would be terribly tempted to sabotage Molly's date with DI Lestrade at least as completely as he'd ever sabotaged any of John's dates. "Impulse control" was not reliable in the H.O.L.M.E.S deduction machine model 2.0. When it worked it worked. When it didn't, Sherlock was likely to give in to temptation three hours before temptation even bothered to present itself for inspection. Molly and Greg both deserved better.

Sherlock didn't comment. John could see his pale profile as he stared out the cab window at the misty streets. After awhile the younger man sighed, and said, "Shall I have the cab drop you at your flat before I go on to Baker Street, then?"

"No. Found out this morning that some criminal-minded bastard stole my key and copied it. I won't feel safe until the locks are changed," John said, letting the snark serve in place of a sharp smack. "Thought I'd stay with you until the changeover's done."

"Then I shall have you dropped at 221B. Let Mrs. Hudson know I won't be back until late tonight—and possibly not for longer."

"Tell her yourself when you're grabbing your laptop. I'm going to ride shotgun with you, for now. Been a long time since we really did much of this."

The truth was more complex, and nothing Sherlock should ever be told. Not only would he be insufferable if he knew John was worried about him, he'd be furious if he knew why. But Sherlock did emotional entanglement with all the natural grace and skill of a walrus attempting ballet. Given the mess of his return, plus Mycroft's condition, plus whatever the hell his relationship with Molly Hooper was evolving into? And now this thing with Lestrade?

Yeah, John thought, I'm worried. Life's asking him to manage Swan Lake in little pink toe shoes when he's lucky to do face-plant-with-banana-peel successfully. Someone's got to be on hand with the bandages and pain killers, even if Sherlock Bloody Holmes does think he's above all that.

No. He wouldn't tell Sherlock—and if Sherlock guessed, he would never admit it. Instead they'd both focus on the work at hand.

"What's on the schedule for the night?" he asked.

"Angelo's after stopping home. Then the Royal Marsden." Sherlock answered, not looking at him. "Check on one of the new guards. Talk to Beemish's people to try to learn what they've heard Mycroft was working on.

"Didn't Beemish and your Uncle William give you decent summaries?"

"According to them, they've given me full abstracts of everything they know about. If you can't identify the obvious uncertainties inherent in that statement on your own, I can walk you through the analysis."

"I may not be as clever as you, but believe me, I've dealt with unreliable intel in my time."

Sherlock's expression suggested that John's defensiveness was cute and rather charming, but that their relative conditions were entirely dissimilar—as distant from each other as a flashlight was from the sun. "This is somewhat more than a mere failure in intel, John. It's closer to—"

_Aaaaaaaaaah._

Fuck, John thought, it's the patented Adler sigh… "Hell, Sherlock, don't tell me she's still…" he cut himself off before he completed that sentence. After all, he was supposed to think Irene Adler was in a witness protection program in the US, not dead. He'd have accepted either: it wasn't as though he wanted to have to factor  _her_  into his friend's pending emotional avalanche.

"Alive and living in Islamabad," Sherlock said almost absently, as he studied the phone screen. He keyed in a message. As the response came in, he said, "She says if you ever decide to misbehave, she'll teach you how to play 'Naughty-Naughty, Doctor!' You might want to take her up on that one: you'd be amazed what she can do with surgical restraints. Oh, do stop sputtering, John, I need to read this."

To John's surprise he was still glued to the phone by the time they arrived at Angelo's, having carried it into Baker Street with him, and carried it right back out, still in use, when he returned to the cab with his laptop. He was still reading and shooting back messages when the bread sticks arrived. He was still engaged when he absently ordered chicken piccata with a broccoli rabe side. John couldn't decide whether to be worried or impressed that he appeared entirely unaroused. What could a man find to say to Irene Adler for almost a half-hour that didn't involve sex or blackmail? What could  _Sherlock_ find to say to her that didn't involve him flustering, struggling to not-blush, or behaving like a teenager with his first girlfriend?

John ordered osso bucco for his own meal, and munched on bread sticks while he waited for their meals to come. At last Sherlock typed in a final message, and pocketed the phone.

"That's some frown," John observed. "Is the Parliamentary Whip in trouble again?"

Sherlock barely acknowledged the quip, or John's clear distaste for Irene. Instead he grabbed a thin breadstick, and failed to eat it, instead rolling the straw-thin stick between his fingers, still frowning. "She's been providing me with auxiliary research on Uncle William and Mr. Beemish's problem," he said. "Undercover intelligence, as it were. The trouble is, she's not learning anything _useful_." He met John's eyes, saying, "You do understand what Uncle William and Mr. Beemish are dealing with, don't you?"

"Nope. Half of what I've overheard was in code, so far as I'm concerned, and the rest was…well… I try not to remember Afghanistan."

For the first time since the fiasco in the morgue at St. Bart's, Sherlock's attention snapped into the immediate present, and his companion. "Oh. Yes. I'm sorry, John. I've been so focused on other things I'd quite forgotten. " His sincere remorse shone past his reserve.

Sherlock was so seldom stricken—so seldom apologetic. When it happened it struck like a round of mortar fire on a mud brick wall, leaving nothing standing. It was for moments like this, John thought, that he eventually forgave Sherlock far more than he'd ever forgive other men, even though they might never hurt him as deeply as Sherlock could. What Lestrade said about Sherlock during that very first adventure—that he was a great man, but that Lestrade was hoping someday he'd also be a good one—moments like this assured John that Lestrade's dream would, someday, come fully true. If you looked at Sherlock as only the man he was now, as often as not you'd want to deck him. If you looked at him through the glow of who he was becoming, though, you'd follow him through hell.

Or through memories of Afghanistan. Assuming there was any difference.

An hour later they were still talking, and the dust of Helmand Province ruined the taste of John's osso bucco: even gremolata can't hold out against bitter memory.

"In the end it never changes," he concluded, wearily. "Some things you can't fix from the outside. But, so help me, I got really tired of looking at the part of the mess we made and thinking, 'So this is what England means to the rest of the world.' I think we need a new meaning."

Sherlock finished the last bit of his chicken piccata, and took a sip of wine. "Whereas Mr. Beemish and Uncle William think we need more messes, and are terrified that one of Mycroft's people will make that more difficult, through his presence or absence. I'm still not sure which. The more I look, the less I discover to be clear." He took his phone, clearly spooled back in a text, and slipped the phone across the table to John. "Here. See if this means anything to you. Irene's been trying to find any trace of an undercover mole in any of the circles suggested, and she's finding nothing."

John reached out with the suspicion of a man who's lived in places where scorpions, adders, mines and assorted booby traps can all be found hidden in seemingly innocent settings. He read the exchange slowly, frowning more and more as he went. At last he looked up at Sherlock.

"It really is an intelligence report—well, barring the sex talk and kinky endearments. Does she really call you—"

"It's merely a matter of form," Sherlock interjected quickly, snatching back the phone. "She has standards to live up to. What did you think of the information, though?"

"Let me see if I've got this right: she can't find any indication of a double agent. She can't even find any indication of a likely fault line in the social structures Beemish and his people have suggested she look into. The one family they were really worried about consists of a widow with three sons and three daughters, none of whom are clients of hers. The widow and her sons are currently up to their armpits reorganizing their family business since her husband's death, and have no time to dedicate to international hanky-panky of the espionage variety. She's found ten new pieces of 'insurance,' and thanks you for that—but has found nothing at all to illuminate the problem of Mycroft's hidden agent."

"Very good, John. You did leave out some incidentals, but I actually agree with your decision to leave out the irrelevant material. The educational activities of upper class Pakistani schoolgirls are hardly important in respect to the subject at hand."

"And you yourself don't know any more about the project Beemish has in hand?"

"Only that he's determined to make sure I never know. There are trust issues involved."

"Trust issues?"

"I don't trust Beemish; Beemish doesn't trust me. It's a bit of an issue." He looked away from John, staring out into the dark of the street outside. "Don't worry, John. I'm accustomed to the problem. Mycroft's been married to his work for decades, now, and it's dirty, cold work. 'The Ice Man' has taught me a quite a lot about dealing with the devil in a bespoke suit. You've been to Afghanistan. You know what happens when there's a failure of intelligence, in every meaning of the word. Just remember, Mycroft  _is_  The British Government. When you were at war, you were fighting his war."

John wanted to say, "Yet, still, you love him." He didn't think the comment would be welcome. Instead he said, "So it's a standoff? Beemish and William are desperate for answers, but unwilling to give you the information you really need to provide them?"

"Eloquently assessed. Yes. They still expect me to work without data. They think my 'personal resources' more than make up for their public resources."

John considered some of Irene's asides. "They may have a point. I'd bet none of their reports even mentioned whipped cream in passing, much less with triple entendres."

"So far whipped cream has not been mentioned even once in any of Beemish or William's reports," Sherlock confirmed, before trying to convince Angelo to comp him two cannoli to go. It turned out that Angelo was still grateful all these years since Sherlock had "saved his reputation," but that he wasn't willing to let two cannoli out unpaid for. Sherlock grumbled about the ingratitude all the way over to the Royal Marsden, ignoring the fact that he and John had just enjoyed two free meals as a benefit of Angelo's gratitude.

In Mycroft's room, Sherlock studied the new guard, a Mr. Denver, with narrowed eyes and obvious suspicion. The guard repaid him the compliment.

"And your connection with Mr. Holmes, Mr. Denver? It's existed for how long, then?"

"Ten years, sir."

"And you worked with him in what capacity?"

"That's classified information, sir."

"And I should trust you to protect my brother for what reason?"

"That's classified, too. Sir."

"You don't much like me, do you, Mr. Denver?"

"You're Mr. Holmes' kid brother, sir. "

"My reputation precedes me, then?"

"Let's just say if Mr. Holmes had asked me, you wouldn't be living comfortably in Baker Street, sir. You complicate things."

Sherlock's eyes flickered, but he nodded. "Understood. Do you, however,  _trust_  me?"

"With what?"

"Mycroft's safety."

John could see Denver consider that one. Apparently it was a three-pipe problem. At last he gave a quick, hard nod.

"Then you can stop calculating shooting angles, Mr. Denver. Targeting my vital organs is unnecessarily stressful to both of us. Now, if you and John would do me the kindness, I'd like some time with my brother alone."

Denver, rather than leaving, narrowed his eyes. "You've decided you trust me, too."

"Oh, hardly. You'd kill me in a moment on no better grounds than national convenience. You will, however, protect Mycroft with your life—and that is sufficient."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Mr. Denver, Dr. Watson and I have been in this room for ten minutes, now. During that time we have made no move, even the slightest, that you have not evaluated for potential threat, and planned methods of countering. Seven of those counters involved placing yourself in the line of fire between myself, Dr. Watson, and my brother." He met the agent's eyes, an odd expression of appreciation showing, briefly. "You'd take a bullet for him."

Denver's jaw set. "Yes."

Sherlock nodded, and said, simply, "And that, Mr. Denver, is why I will trust you, for this very specific and limited value of the word 'trust.' Now, privacy, please. You may remain outside the door, if you like." He pulled the guest chair to the side of Mycroft's bed, and sat, ignoring both John and Denver as though they'd already left.

John was actually surprised when, rather than standing guard outside Mycroft's door, Denver strode to the far end of the corridor, took out a mobile phone, and proceeded to carry on what looked like a passionate discussion with someone the other end. He was curious, but didn't see an obvious solution to the puzzle, though, and, after watching for a few minutes, decided to at least be surrounded by secret service enigmas in the comparative comfort of the ward waiting room.

He'd been sitting on a hard, severely unlovely sofa looking out into mist-filled streets for ten minutes when someone joined him on the couch. Glancing over he was surprised to see his old friend, Mycroft's aide. Apparently she'd not put down her Blackberry in all the years since he'd last encountered her, except to upgrade.

He gave a crooked grin. "Is it a safe bet your name's still not Anthea?"

"Place ten pounds on it for the win," she said, "You won't regret it."

"Thought so." He watched as she poked and prodded her smart phone, apparently working on a project she considered of some importance. "You're not going to tell me why you're here, are you?"

She hit a final button. Without looking away from her screen, she said, "Actually, Dr. Watson, I am. I've been sent as the representative of a…certain faction…to ask your advice about something."

"You've what?!" He didn't like the stunned squeak in his voice, so forced himself to try again. "I mean, you have? What in the name of God can I give you advice about? You've got to have combat physicians of your own."

"Mr. Denver has reported his conversation with  _our_  Mr. Holmes' brother," she said. "We've decided we do not trust our own judgment. Tell me, doctor, should we show  _your_ Mr. Holmes this?" She pushed one final key on her Blackberry, and handed it to John.

Ten minutes later, wiping an embarrassing amount of water from his face, he said, "God. Yes. Show him."

It was another ten minutes to find a private office with a computer and set it up with the thumb drive she'd brought with her. Then John went down the way to Mycroft's room. He tapped on the door, but received no answer. He eased the door open and slipped his head in.

Sherlock was seated very upright with Mycroft's hand in both of his, like a child with a fresh-hatched chick cradled safe. Without looking at John he said, "There have been studies done regarding sensory input in patients in coma. There is no categorical proof, but contact does appear to have some therapeutic value."

"Yes. Of course. Sherlock…there's something Mycroft's people would like you to see. Do you mind coming down the way for a few minutes?"

By the time John had Sherlock to the office, not-Anthea had been joined by six other agents. They hovered at the back of the room as she settled their superior's brother at the desk, and clicked up their offering. The first notes of the introduction to "Skyfall" filled the room, and a single image appeared on screen: Mycroft Holmes, dressed in flawless bespoke business greys, umbrella over his elbow, gazing out over London from the rooftop of St. Barts, Moriarty's body lying in the background surrounded by busy police and agents. The expression on Mycroft's face was both still and unutterably sad. Text appeared below the image.

Mycroft Holmes

AKA: The British Government

B. 1969 – D. ?

And then the tribute video really began.

John found it as devastating the second time as the first—more devastating, as he watched Sherlock's face in the cold office light see— _observe—_ the memorial Mycroft's people had made for their leader. The images and the footagewere intense. From the first early pictures of a young man in the 1980s it progressed through Mycroft's career.

"That was the Bishopsgate bombing—'93. His first year on the job," one of the gathered agents murmured identifying a still of a shocked Mycroft carrying a disembodied hand. The body part seemed ironically out of place against Mycroft's double-breasted navy suit. Mycroft's face even then was reserved, but the look of stunned horror in his eyes shouted more than any grimace could have.

"That one was that extraction that went all pear-shaped in South Africa," another added, a moment later. "Ten of ours dead, and we didn't get the hostages out." Mycroft, still young and with all his hair, was running across dry, sere earth toward what appeared to be awaiting helicopter—it was hard to tell. The photo wa staken from within, but a helicopter rotor could be seen in the upper edge of the image.. Mycroft was just turning back, waving following agents on. His arm was across his body, and the combat uniform was dark with blood.

In one shot Mycroft walked—no, loped—from a building carrying a small child in a pink parka. His eyes were fixed on the mother waiting, arms stretched out reaching for her child, tears running down her face. Mycroft was caught forever in the gesture of first raising the child up to her.

"Hostage negotiation, Leeds, 1998," was all the murmuring agent chorus provided on that one.

There was a cut of footage from a cemetery, taken from a distance.

"Oh, look. It's Bandon's funeral."

"Before my time. Who was he and how did he die?"

"Mr. Holmes' mentor. AIDS. Too late in the disease for the new cocktail meds to save him."

No one had to ask if Mycroft had admired his mentor. John was becoming sensitized to all the ways the Ice Man's face could communicate passion held within.

For the first time Sherlock spoke, voice husky. "He must have just come out—Mycroft. Were they…?"

"No idea," the older speaker said. "You knew then? He's…"

"I'm not  _stupid_ ," Sherlock snarled. "I have eyes. Even before he told Mummy, I knew. Even after, he wouldn't talk about it." Before the conversation could continue, a new picture filled the screen, and someone murmured, "Oh, God. Kosovo. I forgot Kosovo…"

Another image, and someone said, "Oh, God. I love this picture. It always makes me cry. Look at those two fingers on Mary's elbow." It was a stark black and white still. A woman was seated on a stage in what looked like a formal awards ceremony. She held a flag and a presentation box, and was determined not to cry. Mycroft, dressed like a living advert for Saville Row, sat beside her, staring forward, his umbrella neatly leaning against his knees. His arms were crossed, and only the telescoping zoom of the video's editor made it easy to spot the hand nearest the grieving widow. His index and middle fingers arched out across a space of inches to rest, softly, on her arm—a comfort and a kindness trying desperately not to be seen.

"Shy," someone said. "So shy…"

"Sweet," someone else said. "Not that he wouldn't spit at you if he knew you thought so."

There was a picture in a sterile war room, filled with banks of computers. Mycroft rocketed through the room, face burning with the same intense brilliance John knew so well from Sherlock's, one arm sweeping up to indicate something to the team that surrounded him, all eyes watching him like he was God.

"That was Manchester. '02."

"I never heard of anything happening in Manchester in '02," John said.

"Thanks to that man, nothing did. You have no idea how many people are walking around buying their dinner at Sainsbury's today who'd be fertilizer if it weren't for him."

A long shot of the steps of Parliament. Mycroft in a glorious trench coat, leaning on his umbrella, looking cocky as hell, laughing with Tony Blair.

"Ah. That's the war he managed to keep us out of," someone said.

" _Which_  war he managed to keep us out of?" another voice said, tones making it clear that this was the beloved punch-line of a joke they all shared.

Another shot: the announcement of the Good Friday Agreement. Behind all the official dignitaries stood Mycroft, a look of exhausted relief on his face.

Another shot. Not-Anthea spoke, voice sad. "That was the attack on America, 9/11. After that he asked to be made liaison between our terrorist teams and the CIA's."

"The start of a beautiful friendship," someone quipped—but no one laughed. The image of Mycroft, standing at a plate glass window, back to his photographer, made laughter impossible. One hand held a folded copy of the  _London Times_. The other clearly had been raised to his face. No one had to see more to know he was in tears and preserving what little dignity was left by turning away.

A shot of Mycroft, face lit with victory, nodding to a woman across a room.

"She'd just successfully taken out Moriarty's handler," someone said.

"Moriarty had a handler?" Sherlock squawked.

"Of course he fucking had a handler," Not-Anthea snapped. "You didn't think someone that crazy was out without a keeper, did you? He had superiors. Hell, his superiors have superiors. Why did you think we had to risk letting him loose? That stupid code key? We had to find who was using him as a cat's paw. There's word they're the real cause of Fukushima. They're killing people. And it's all one big game, to them. We'd heard the next client in their queue was North Korea. You want to have nightmares? Imagine North Korea's wish-list being managed by Moriarty's bosses." She met Sherlock's stare with annoyance. "You didn't think he was doing all this for fun and giggles, did you?"

Sherlock looked away, eyes returning to the screen.

The rest was more of the same. Battles won and lost. The living and the dead. History was played out through the life of Mycroft Holmes, British Enigma, a man who wore a tailored suit so exquisite it became a parody of itself; who wore a stillness so complete that the slightest gesture stood out like black print on white paper. The final image came, at last…something rare and precious. Mycroft, apparently walking somewhere in London in a good mood. His umbrella was under his arm, his jacket was off and slung casually over one shoulder. He was having a small social moment with a huge orange moggie who sat on the brick wall of the front garden of a townhouse. It looked for all the world as though man and cat were holding hands, and one long finger arched up to tickle Sir Cat's whiskers. The ginger forelock of Mylock's hair fell forward over his brow, and he was smiling.

Over the image, text slowly faded in.

The Soldier

Rupert Brooke

If I should die, think only this of me;

That there's some corner of a foreign field

That is forever England. There shall be

In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;

A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,

Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,

A body of England's breathing English Air,

Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,

A pulse in the eternal mind, no less

Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;

Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;

And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,

In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

And it was done.

The silence ripped through the room, louder than "Skyfall."

Sherlock raised his hand, fingers wide, and pressed them to the screen.

"Ah," he said, softly. "The British Government. Ah, Mycroft…"

"And that," said Not-Anthea, "Is why we will take a bullet for him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Words and lyrics to "Skyfall," if you're interested. They seem a proper backdrop for agents to use to commemorate a much admired leader they consider a true compatriot: someone they'd willingly die with and for. 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DeumyOzKqgI
> 
> While the Rupert Brooke poem is slightly off target in non-vital ways, in spirit it seemed too perfect to pass up-the perfect epitaph for the sensitive patriot, and every bit as much a classic as Mycroft's suits.


	16. Those Hours of Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regardless of where we left Mr. Holmes last night, he's insisted to me that that was not the end of it. Forgive me, but this chapter serves to demonstrate Sherlock's...infinite variety. In other words, he's being his own wee difficult self in this chapter.

 

Sherlock Holmes was not yet good. He was Holmes, and contrary as a cat. That is the way of it, sometimes. Rub a cat's tummy and he may purr and purr, yet turn on you in an instant the second he feels vulnerable.

On the ride back to Baker Street, John wanted to talk, and Sherlock hated it.

John wanted to talk about Mycroft. John wanted to talk about that bloody video. Worst, John wanted to talk about Sherlock's behavior subsequent to the viewing, which according to him started out "well enough, but devolved into pure piss-ass mean-minded prick-dickery."

Sherlock wanted him to shut up—please, to just bloody  _shut up_.

"I pointed out the obvious. That video was an appalling piece of manipulative sentiment intended to commemorate a man whose first instinct would be to arrange a surgical strike on his entire division to ensure the contagion would never reach the outside world. Mycroft would puke," Sherlock snarled, with the near-frantic savagery of an injured feral dog brought to bay. "If he knew they'd collected that heap of morbid, malodorous documentation and glued it together into such a maudlin peep show into his life he'd be ashamed of them."

John's jaw set, "Listen, Sunny Jim, you're treading close to the line. The least you could have done was respect that they love your brother and are afraid he'll die. That's really what it's about. That's real, even if you do think it's too bloody sentimental."

"They are  _agents_. They're not supposed to be faffing about like wet, whiny berks at an office memorial service. 'Ooooh, he was a sweet fellow, warn' 'e?' ''E'll be missed, that's sure, ennit?'" He made a gagging noise. "Seriously, just because they can edit their images and package them like—like a Christmas special for the telly—doesn't make it real, and it doesn't make it right. That was Mycroft.  _Mycroft._ Mycroft doesn't  _care._  He thinks. He thinks better than I do, damn him. But he  _Does. Not. Care_. Only idiots and morons and ordinary people care."

The figurative temperature of the cab dropped a full eighty degrees or so in a matter of seconds. John Watson looked at Sherlock with a hard, shark-eyed stare Sherlock had not ever expected to face. "I see. Got it. So sorry we ordinary mortals go about inflicting our filthy little feelings on the exalted Holmes Brothers."

Too late Sherlock saw where this was going. He tried to backpedal. "I wasn't talking about you. I wasn't talking about…It was about Mycroft. Mycroft would—he  _will_  hate that. He doesn't  _care_. They made him look…"

"They made him look like the man I met in an empty warehouse the first day we worked together," John growled. "You know something? He was tough as nails and cold and distant as the sodding Himalayas in January, but one thing he never pretended was that he didn't care. I've known him years, now, and no matter how angry I've been at him, no matter what damned mistakes I thought he made, even I have to admit that he never,  _never_  pretended he didn't care. He cared about his work, and about the country, and about his own damned pride—but you want to know what he cared about most often and most openly? You, damn it. You. And you repaid him for it the same damned way you pay all of us. With a dagger for a tongue and the loyalty of an alley cat: here when you want your kibble, gone when you don't."

Sherlock was relieved as the cab pulled up in front of 221B. It gave him time to stall as he paid the cabbie, and climbed from the car. He stood on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, stamping his feet slightly, waiting for John to join him.

John didn't. Instead he looked at Sherlock as though he were many miles away, and of very little importance. He sighed, and grabbed the handle of the door.

"Aren't you coming in?" Sherlock asked. "After all, some bastard stole your key and copied it." He hoped the joke would bring back the old John…the John from just a few hours ago. The John who cared.

John's lips tightened. He looked at Sherlock and frowned. He made a small noise that didn't so much hold the promise of words withheld as the certainty of no words left, gave a tiny shake of his head in stunned disbelief—and closed the car door. In seconds the hearse-black cab had rolled away, leaving Sherlock standing alone.

The deep emotional waters of the past days—of the past weeks—seemed to draw back, and back, and back, leaving Sherlock's heart an empty beach strewn with wreckage and dead fish. For a moment he hoped this was the end—the end of feelings, and of confusion. The start of a cool, safe distance that would turn him into his own dispassionate ideal.

Then the wave of feelings heaved high, turned, and roared back. If it had been a real wave it would have filled the sky, veiled the sun with churning green. As it was it scoured all hope of dispassion from his heart. All he could do was hang on. It was too much. Too much to feel—and Sherlock didn't do "feel."

He panicked. He didn't do feelings. He didn't. He never had. He was bad at feelings… He groped for straws in the torrent of feelings—anything to help him deal.

I don't do feelings. What I do, he thought, is really good drugs. It's been a very long time since I did really good drugs. Mycroft would kill me if he knew I was thinking of it. But that's rather the point. He doesn't know.

The aching longing for cocaine was suddenly almost unbearable. A couple lines, a good shot and he'd be back to the God zone of the rush, to that cocaine-conviction of control, dominance, and omnipotence even his best deductive frenzies could not quite match. Before cocaine there had been only the high of deduction. After cocaine he'd understood the true high deduction had only hinted at. And after quitting cocaine there had only been surviving from case to case, from challenge to challenge—and later, from MI6 hit to MI6 hit, as he worked with Mycroft's people to eliminate Moriarty's mob.

That mob had now proved to be only the messy remnant of an insane cat's paw, hardly important compared to whatever overlords had managed Moriarty to their own ends and goals. As with the Bond Air fiasco, Sherlock had been doing no more than fluttering at the edges of a far greater game—Mycroft's game. Even Sherlock's "death" and sacrifice, the suffering of his friends, all of it was part of Mycroft's larger game—a game so dire that even Sherlock understood why his brother had been unable to make a move to protect Sherlock and his friends when everything had started to drift.

The bitterness was beyond words. As always, he was reminded how much he was in debt to his brother, dependent on his brother, and truly, inescapably inferior to his brother. Mycroft hurt him, over and over again, without intent. Indeed, often the injury was collateral damage from Mycroft's constant attempts to protect and empower Sherlock. How could so much love go so very wrong, so very often?

How could Mycroft always be so loving and so damned cold at once? And damn John anyway, for pointing out that Mycroft always cared. Sherlock didn't want to know Mycroft cared. It was easier to stay sane believing him to be loveless, a Machiavelli without a heart or a soul. Sherlock could not say whether that made his imaginary Mycroft a villain to despise, or a role model to emulate. It had, however, made him someone Sherlock could ignore—and, ignoring Mycroft, he'd built himself a fragile, precious life filled with unexpected friends, there at the edge of Mycroft's surging ocean.

And now that life was gone, the friends were gone, Mycroft was gone, and only the ocean was left…and Sherlock was too far out, and not waving, but drowning.

"Sherlock, dear, it's cold out. Aren't you coming in?" Mrs. Hudson called from the doorway.

Sherlock turned and looked at her. She had a flowered synthetic satin bathrobe clutched tight at her throat, and fluffy feathered slippers on her feet. He didn't know what to say to her. She was very beautiful and very ordinary and very, very lost to him.

"Come on inside, love. I'll make us a cuppa. Things always look better when you've had a cuppa," she said, then, eyes announcing that she'd recognized something was wrong. "Strong tea and biccies, and you can talk all about it."

He shook his head, struggling to even say, "No." There were no words, no sounds.

He raised his hand, waved, and walked away into the tidal wave.

He walked for hours. Along the way he visited old haunts and met with old associates. Then he cruised Central London from end to end, looking for a place to use the near weightless packet now in his pocket. He considered the London Eye, but it was closed for the night, and waiting until 10:00 A.M. just to fall from grace someplace dramatic seemed juvenile and petty. St. Paul's? At least the stairs were accessible, but so often populated with a blend of street people and sightseers even at night that it seemed a poor choice. He wouldn't go back to Baker Street. That would be to betray Mrs. Hudson in her own home. The feather-light burden he carried was betrayal enough without adding that. In the end he concluded that there was really only one perfect place to fall from grace. After all, there was such enormous precedent.

The roof of St. Barts was dark and empty. A light wind blew, sending Sherlock's coat out in satisfyingly dramatic sweeps and flutters. Sherlock looked around, finding in his mind's eye where Moriarty had lain all those months ago. He wondered if Moriarty's blood remained, trapped forever in the gritty grey roofing paper.

He walked to the edge of the roof, stood on the edge, and remembered what it felt like to fall, not knowing for certain his plan would work.

It had been horrible—the worst moment of his life. His last view before dropping face first toward the street had been John in a panic, seen through the blur of his own tears. Even so, it had been—exhilarating. Never dull. Never boring. He'd never hurt so much, or felt so alive, or been so afraid. In a very real sense he had died—and lived, and been reborn. He could reach out in his mind even now and feel where everyone had been at the time, as though a physical cord tied him to those places. He could feel John at the end of the turn-around, his view partially blocked by a building, by buses and trucks. He could feel Molly, lurking ready to do her part, below him and out of sight, where John would not see her. He could feel Mrs. Hudson in her home, puttering around, dealing with the workman who intended to kill her. He could feel Greg Lestrade in his office, targeted by one of his own. He could even feel a cord to Mycroft, helpless to change what was coming, like the fairy godmother in Sleeping Beauty who could not lift the curse, but only ameliorate it.

He could feel how very much, in that moment, he had loved them all: loved them so much his heart had threatened to break. He could feel how very much he loved them still; how much his heart was breaking.

I'm not good at this, he thought. I'm really not  _good_ at it. I'm not even ordinary at it. I am bad at it.I don't do "feel."

I do good drugs.

He slipped the little plastic packet from his pocket and let it lie on the black palm of his glove. He moved his hand so that both the pavement and the packet could be seen in a single view. Which one was the object of attention was determined only by a shift in focus.

What had John said, that very first case? That he'd have taken the pill? That he took risks to prove he was clever.

Of course, John had also pointed out he was an idiot.

He missed John pointing out he was an idiot. He missed them all. Missed Lestrade putting up with him, carrying him through all the bureaucracy and team backbiting just to let him do what he was good at, offering him those sudden unexpected smiles. He missed Mrs. Hudson clucking and brooding and fussing over him, all with her falsely cranky cleverness and kindness. He missed Molly, though the new Molly drew him and terrified him in equal measure: a little mouse turned tigress before his eyes. She still counted. He missed…

Mycroft. God. He  _missed_  Mycroft…just the knowledge of him, steady as stone. Always there. Maddeningly better than him. More responsible. More successful by far. Better integrated. Better socialized. Stronger…and always, always, always smarter. And always, always, always someone to whom he was eternally indebted—which was very close to unforgivable of him. Maddening as Mycroft was, Sherlock missed him terribly. He could feel that limp hand in his far more completely than he could feel the packet of cocaine. Mycroft's hand, even in memory, had a heft and weight the cocaine lacked.

He looked at the packet of cocaine, increasingly visible in the bleached, cold dawn. It was a choice, wasn't it? If he didn't take the cocaine, he still might not find a way to win back his friends or stand by his brother. But if he did take it, they would be lost from him forever. He'd been down this path before, and he couldn't lie to himself about it. He could cling to the cocaine, or to the hands of the people who'd somehow stolen his heart, but not both. Never both.

He heard the rooftop door open, and the heavy crunch of footsteps on gritted roof paper. He heard them stop.

"Lestrade," he said.

"Sherlock. You know, you really do know how to screw up an otherwise pretty good evening."

"Your date with Molly went well, then?"

"As first dates go, it was a winner. Until we got the angry call from John. And then the panicked call from Mrs. Hudson. We've been looking for you."

"Who guessed I'd be here?"

"Tie between me and Molly: we were kind of collaborating, there."

"Is that what they're calling it, these days?"

"Jerk."

"I'm not going there even to satisfy comic inevitability." After a few minutes of shared silence, he said, "Why don't you come join me?"

"Is that what I have to do to talk you off the ledge?"

"I'm not on the ledge."

"Don't look now, but…yeah, you kind of are, sunshine. In more ways than one."

"Granted a certain literal veracity to the statement, I must still insist I'm not on the ledge."

"In that case, do you mind stepping back from that one?"

"Afraid of heights, Detective Inspector?"

"Afraid of leaving them abruptly."

He thought about it, and snorted a soft laugh. "Yes. That is the thing, isn't it? Very well, it reduces the melodramatic element a bit, but I shall humor you." He turned and stepped down carefully, then walked to Lestrade, his fist closed on the packet of cocaine. He met Lestrade's eyes, and asked, "Can you choose not to be a policeman, for just a minute?"

"Should I? Or are you going to make me regret it?" The faint smile in Greg's eyes, though, suggested he was already sure of the answer.

Sherlock smiled at him, appreciating him. "No regrets, I think."

Lestrade nodded, smile growing, crinkling his faint crows-feet. "Consider me a civilian, then."

"Then,  _Citoyen_  Lestrade, you may help me celebrate." He opened his hand, displaying the packet. He picked it up, and realized his gloves were not going to make this easy. Looking uncertainly at Lestrade, he asked, "Um…you're not wearing gloves. Can you open it for me?"

Wordlessly Lestrade took the packet and opened it, handing it back gingerly.

"This really would have been much more epic on the edge of the roof," Sherlock told him, sternly. Then he tipped the bag over and emptied it into the morning breeze. " _Vive la liberte."_ He handed the packet to Lestrade again. "I suggest you burn it or flush it, Detective Inspector: your fingerprints, not mine are on the bag."

Lestrade's mouth quirked. "Always were good at the details. It's really a blessing you're not a crook." He tucked the packet in his pocket. "So, you talked yourself in off the ledge?"

"Off of several of them."

The older man nodded, pensively. "Good. It's really better that way, if you can manage it." He turned and looked out over the city blushing before them in the rising sun. "We know it's not easy, sunshine. We do understand that."

"I'm not  _good_ at feelings," Sherlock said, voice a bit whiny.

"You don't get to be good at everything. I wanted to be the best husband in the world—and then reality declared otherwise. I wanted to be the best detective in the world—and life sent me you. I wanted to play the hottest jazz sax in London—and ended up with no lip. Sometimes you just have to play the cards you're dealt."

"It would be easier to just avoid it all."

"That's a choice you're going to have to make—you can, you know. In a lot of ways it looks to me like that's what your brother's done: built a world where he can feel, but doesn't have to feel too much most of the time, and only what he's ready to deal with. You can shelter yourself."

Sherlock had not thought of it that way. "What are the other options?"

Lestrade shot him a wry sideward glance. "Are you making me do your thinking for you, Sherlock?"

"Role reversal," Sherlock responded, tartly.

"Score," Lestrade ceded.

"Consider yourself a consultant," Sherlock comforted him. "This is your area of expertise."

Lestrade laughed. He had a big, roomy laugh. "Well. Okay. Other options, then. First one: do what you just did. Accept you're not  _always_  the best, and ask for help."

Sherlock bridled. "I do  _not_  beg for help."

"I didn't say 'beg.' I said ask. Which leads to my second suggestion: get over yourself a bit, sunshine. Pride's one thing, but if your nose were any higher in the air you'd have low-orbit satellites caught in your sinuses."

"Ah. Humility. A concept. I'll take it under advisement. Anything else?"

"Yeah. Quit hurting people on purpose."

"This will help me improve my emotional skills how?"

"By reducing the number of people who want to deck you? Believe me, it's easier to deal emotionally with people who aren't having to forgive you every time three words or more escape your bitchy mouth."

"Oh, I can be offensive in one word—or less, if you count meaningful non-verbal vocalization."

"It's not an accomplishment, you idiot."

"Maybe not for some," Sherlock grumbled, "But I assure you—"

Lestrade threw his hands up in the air. "Ok. Enough. You've got three suggestions; that's enough to be getting on with." He stretched. "Damn. I need a cup of coffee or I'm not going to make it through the day. Are we settled for now? Can I call Molly and the rest and tell them you're fine, so they can stop holding their breath?"

"Yes. Um… How is Molly? I'd really prefer she not fear she went to the trouble of saving me only to have me undo all her good work."

Lestrade looked at him, cocking his head and pondering. "That's not what you really want to ask, is it?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "What do you mean?"

"What you really want to ask is if I'm going to keep dating Molly."

"Ridiculous."

Lestrade waited, too obviously amused.

"Well…are you?" Sherlock finally asked, curiosity breaking his will.

"Yes. If she's interested."

"Why?"

"Because I like her. Because if she hadn't been crazy for you all these years I'd have asked her years ago. Because I'm not getting any younger and, sometimes, I still dream of being the best husband in the world—for _someone_. I can see the possibility of being the best husband in the world for Molly."

Sherlock grimaced. It was an entirely too admirable answer. In the end he said, "Just—you're not hurting Molly. I'm not having it. Do you understand?"

Lestrade looked at him—a lazy, amused look—and said, very softly, "Understood. And back-atcha, sunshine."

Sherlock stuck his nose in the air, refusing to even consider the low-orbit satellites or his sinuses. " _I'm_  not the one dating her."

Lestrade chuckled as he started for the door. "Maybe you should be."

 


	17. The Dancing Men

Molly heard Greg come into the morgue, and called out, "I'm back here, in my office. How did it go?"

"You're not asking, 'Was he there?'" he responded cheerfully, as he worked his way down the aisle to her door.

"No. You were up there too long for him not to be there."

"Good deduction." She made a face, and he grinned. "He's okay—I think. He talked himself around."

"Mrs. Hudson's been ransacking his place trying to make sure there's nothing there for him."

"Good—I don't think it's necessary, but it may be kinder." Seeing the question in her eyes, he added, "No. He hadn't used. I think that was the point. Tempt himself to the limit, and learn if he'd stop or not."

"He's failed that one before."

"The funny thing is, I don't think he has. Before he's always had Mycroft and me, and later John and Mrs. Hudson as a safety net. When he used, he wasn't testing himself, he was testing us. This time I think he was really afraid there was no 'us.' He had to know if he could stop himself."

"And he could?"

"Yeah."

She nodded, silently. After a moment she said, "Want some coffee? I made a pot while you were up top."

"I will worship you for coffee."

She blushed, and damned herself for it as she hurried from her office and led him back to the main work area, where the coffee pot was. She'd had a small taste of his "worship" earlier, before the phone calls had come in and the search had begun. She'd liked it.

That scared her more than a little. Rather than deal with it, she asked, "Sugar? Cream?"

"Sweet and white. Maybe it will fool my body into thinking I slept and ate breakfast."

"We could go out for breakfast. I'm not actually on duty for hours, yet."

"No. Coffee will do. Thanks for that, though. Look, I'm going to be dead knackered tonight: I'm not the lad I used to be. But I'm off Saturday, so tomorrow night's good. Maybe we could watch that movie we never got to see?" He accepted the mug with a smile and a flickering stroke of a finger over her knuckles.

The hair on the nape of her neck rose and she came out in goose bumps. "I…um. Yeah. I… Yeah. I'd like that." She didn't faint. She wasn't sure why, though. She knew now that going out with Greg meant good odds of kissing—and that he was talented at it. She wasn't sure she could match his skill level, but she'd enjoyed trying. "Friday night, then. Tomorrow. Um…meet here?"

"Works for me." His free hand traced down her arm to her hand, and his fingers laced with hers.

She wasn't breathing quite right, and she knew she was red as a London double-decker bus…but she didn't pull her hand away. Instead she tightened her fingers in a light squeeze. He grinned at her mischievously, brown eyes alight—

And of course, damn it, Sherlock came in and glanced over.

All three of them stiffened and froze for a moment—then shifted into uneasy motion. Molly slipped her fingers free and made a jittery attempt to pour herself a mug of coffee. Greg, spotting her jitter, put his mug down and tried to take over for her—and cracked his knuckles on the pot. Both laughed nervously…

And Sherlock, still and reserved as…well, as Mycroft…looked away from them and paced to the bank of microscopes, seating himself at the new Keyance digital. He leaned over and fiddled, idly. It would have been much more effective if Molly had not known the microscope could not possibly be turned on.

Molly huffed unsteadily, not sure if the sound she made indicated hysteria, laughter, or her hormones going into overdrive. She had Greg leaning much too close, Sherlock far too present and far too ridiculous, and the memory of last night's kisses far too vivid in her mind.

Greg eyes laughed, and he picked his mug back up, toasting her silently. She found herself grinning back. She took a second pass at pouring her own coffee, and succeeded this time. Feeling brave, she called, "Want coffee, Sherlock?"

His head stayed down, bent over the microscope, but one black-gloved hand rose and seemed to brush the suggestion away. "No, thank you. 'Keep calm and carry on.'"

"God, that's tempting," Greg murmured softly, more mischievous than ever. As she blushed crimson, he rolled his eyes. "Don't worry. I know you'd hate it. But, so help me, if you didn't… I think we could probably pay him back for all last night with one proper snog."

"I can hear you, Lestrade…" Sherlock grumbled. "I'm not so easily rattled."

Molly could see the challenge match developing… "No." She shook her head. "Just—no. This is so not happening! Greg, I'll see you tomorrow night. Sherlock? The Keyance works much better when you plug it in. If either of you need to talk to me, I'll be in my office." She grabbed her mug and skittered back to her own safe space, closing the office door behind her. Then she spent the next five minutes trying to recall how to breathe. The life of New Normal Molly was so much more exciting than the life of Old Normal Molly! Terrifying, in some ways. Tempting—oh,  _very_  tempting in others.

She closed her eyes and shivered, remembering the night before. If Sherlock had always made her feel small and unwanted and clumsy and stupid, Greg had unintentionally made her feel young and inexperienced. He was good at what he did. There was no mistaking that he'd been a bit of a lad, sown his wild oats, then married and stayed married for years. All that experience was there in glances, kisses, light touches that demonstrated his knowledge. It was blended with sincerity and an adorable first-date insecurity that kept it from being a rote performance. In comparison she'd felt every year of the decade and a half that lay between them—along with the certainty that if he'd been a bit of a lad, she'd never managed to be wild at all, ever. What was the female counterpart of a "bit of a lad," anyway? A bit of a lass? No. That didn't seem right. Whatever it was, she'd never been one. But, oh, dear, the evening with Greg had made her regret it…

She gulped coffee, and prayed for caffeine to cut in…her focus kept drifting in ways it shouldn't.

It didn't help that the line of Sherlock's shoulders, the cant of his head bent over the microscope, even the graceful lift of the black gloved hand had not become one bit less compelling. Instead of a nice, neat either/or, she was now stuck with a raging case of "OMG, both!"

That's impractical, Molly, she told herself. Not sensible at all. You've finally got a great guy at least interested. Don't ask for more, you idiot.

Apparently one did not recover from years of Sherlock-addiction so quickly as all that.

We're friends, now. That's good enough. He loves me, now…in his own weird Sherlock way. And, please, God, I don't want to go back to the old normal. It hurt too much. I don't want to live like that again. It was horrible…and it wasn't even all his fault. It wasn't his choice to have me that crazy for him. He's got his flaws, but he didn't seduce me. I don't want to land there again. I really don't. It was cray-cray.  _I_  was cray-cray…

She could hear the murmur of voices in the main lab. If she hadn't been so keyed up, or so tired, she would have realized more quickly that it was Nigel and Sherlock, talking. As it was, she'd been staring into her coffee mug for an unknown period of time before the fact registered.

With a gasp and a curse, she jumped up—then caught herself, and forced herself to slow down. She opened the door quietly, preparing to go out and play "senior lab technician and morgue manager"—and prevent either Nige or Sherlock from becoming residents of the morgue, rather than mere visitors. It took her a second to realize that the voices had already fallen off.

She stopped, and listened. For a long stretch there was nothing to be heard but the standard sounds of Nigel opening up shop for the day: clicking on the main computer they used to log bodies in and out, and to maintain files; doing a check-through of the autopsy room; bringing out the rolling gurney with the first corpses, ready for the medical pathologists like Dr. Kemper to get to work. He checked supplies, refilled drawers and containers, checked the autoclave and primed it for future use. All the sounds of normal activities of the morning. She wondered if Sherlock had left already…or did until he spoke, his voice as frigid as an ice bath.

"Am I truly so offensive to you?"

Molly wondered what Nigel had said to bring that on.

Nigel made a grumpy, sullen sound, then said, "You're a right prat. And you're mean to our Moll."

"I'm perhaps less tactful than some people would prefer."

"Try again, mate. You'd lie outright for a shot at being clever-dick of the hour."

"I do not lie!" Sherlock said, sounding affronted to the core.

"Give over. You'd lie in a second, if it suited you."

"Examples, please?"

"You're not dead. That's one, for a start."

"That was different. You do know Molly helped with that." It wasn't a question.

"Well, d'oh." Nigel had a way with "d'oh." When he used it, it sounded twice as dumb as when anyone else did. "Like there was any way for you to get through listed as dead without someone to help you. Who's it going to be but Moll? It's not like I'd have helped you."

"You'd only been hired at the time, so you wouldn't have been much help in any case," Sherlock said, dismissively. "Nor are you remarkably much improved since that time. You may be a competent lab tech, but you're no Molly Hooper."

Nigel laughed, wickedly. "I've a bird in Croydon's glad of it, too."

Sherlock made a sound as though about to tear Nigel apart with analytical brilliance—and then he stopped with a slight choke, before saying in tones of stunned horror, "Good God. You do, don't you? Is the poor girl mad?"

"Like as not. She has a bit of a thing for gingers. That helps," Nigel said, cheerfully. "Still, I'm mad, too, but only when the wind's north-by-northwest. When the wind's to the south I can tell a hawk from a handsaw, me."

There was a long pause, then Sherlock said, "What?" Molly could hear the sound of his brain suddenly and completely crashing—blue-screen Sherlock.

Nigel made an incredulous sound. "Huh? That's Shakespeare, yeah? Hamlet. You know? 'Alas, poor Yorick?' 'To be or not to be?' 'Good night, sweet prince?' Just the most famous sodding play in the whole sodding world?"

"Oh," Sherlock said, dismissively. "I don't bother with things like that. They're not useful to me."

"You're having me on, right?"

"No. Brains are limited in capacity. What value is there in keeping trivia like that?"

"You don't mean it. You really know bugger-all about Shakespeare?" He whistled. "That explains a lot. Look, you may be a complete whiz, but if you don't know Shakespeare, and Dr. Who, and the Bangles, and the Beatles, and who the Spice Girls are, and who won the World Cup, and what the latest movies are, or the classics, or who Cole Porter is, or…or all that…you're going to make such a mess of things! All that stuff, it's not useless: it's…it's…" he stopped, stunned by the enormity of such ignorance. "It's people stuff. It's all…" he paused, then said, firmly, "It's  _evidence_ , y'great pillock. It all means as much as grit on a shoe or brown sauce on a lapel. You don't know stuff like that and you can look and look and still not know what you're looking at."

"Passionately argued, but I've not found it to be the case," Sherlock replied. "On the contrary, I find those who fill their heads with that sort of 'stuff' to be incredibly boring."

"Yeah, and I fall asleep if you sit me down with a bunch of math types. But that doesn't mean what they're saying isn't important. It just means I'm too stupid or ignorant to know why it's important. You're blinkered…and you don't even know it."

Sherlock snorted. "You sound far too much like my brother Mycroft. Well—not  _like_ him. However, he'd agree with your thesis, while being stunned at the plebian limits of your expressive capacity."

"He's the one who's… I mean, yeah. I forgot he was…" Nigel sobered, ignoring Sherlock's insult. "Hey, I'm sorry."

"It's hardly your fault."

The two were quiet again. The steady sound of the morgue waking up replaced their conversation. Molly was about to go in to add her own contribution to opening up, when Nigel cleared his throat.

"Anyway. Um…just between us? Geek to freak? You're not so bad, when you're not being a total prat. Just… don't dick around with Molly, ok? She's good people. She doesn't deserve it."

Sherlock cleared his own throat, then murmured, "Yes, she is, and no, she doesn't. And… Freak to geek? You're almost intelligent. Sometimes."

"More often than you think."

"Don't push it."

"Yeah, yeah. Toff. "

"Geek."

"Freak."

Molly couldn't believe it. It was…

It was male bonding. Real, authentic, insult-ridden, classically juvenile male bonding—in her morgue! Between Sherlock and Nigel! Any minute now one of them might well pound the other on the bicep and offer to stand the next bloody round. Fighting back laughter, she punched the air silently, then crept back to her office, collected her mug, and swept back in to the lab.

"Good morning, Nige. Need a hand with the first gurney?"

"Nope. No point till later. Dr. Changwani's not scheduled for the DOA till ten, and he's the first for the day."

Molly poured coffee for herself, Nigel, and Sherlock, adding the correct amounts of sugar and cream automatically. Nigel took his black, she liked hers with a sugar and a splash of cream, and God knew, she had Sherlock's black-two-sugar down cold. Once done she rinsed the pot and started a new one. She and Nigel fell into the comfortable, familiar rhythm of morning set-up, neither paying all that much attention to Sherlock, who remained where he was by the microscopes. Only when the morgue was fully prepared for business did she stop to lean against the lab table and talk.

"It's none of my business, but just what did happen last night?"

Sherlock scowled into his cup. "I just pointed out that Mycroft would hate being turned into the big-eyed poster child for MI5 and MI6. Really, Molly, it was quite saccharine."

"Mmm. Would he hate knowing his people care about him that much?"

Sherlock shrugged and refused to meet her eye.

Failing to get any further response, she asked, "Are you making any progress on learning who's trying to kill him? Or on the stuff you're working on for his people?"

"None," he said, voice growly and annoyed. "Beemish is investigating the attacks on Mycroft. He and William are continuing to send me summaries on the issue of his concealed agent. My own contacts are sending in information—but none of it suggests a pattern."

"Do you know if the two are connected, or is the killer someone taking advantage of opportunity, and the agent-thing just the fallout? It just seems like a lot of stuff to be going wrong at once, if it's not connected…"

He paused, and something flashed in his eyes. She'd seen that alertness before—a sudden tension, a revving of the mental engines. He sat, still but poised, frozen for second after second, eyes flicking as he studied something unseen by anyone outside his skull. One hand rose, then, and seemed to push an invisible object to one side. The other hand rose—pulled something into alignment. Something was flicked away; something was drawn forward. He studied his invisible array, pondering.

"Heall right?" Nigel asked, worried.

Molly frowned. "I've seen him do it before. He's thinking."

"I think every day without conducting the choir invisible."

"That is because you have no composition or structure to give your thinking form," Sherlock snapped, coming out of his fugue blazing with intensity.

"You've figured it out?" Molly asked, as breathless at the sight of him in action as she'd ever been.

"Not all, but a start. The hunt's begun, Molly! It's begun." He uncoiled from the lab stool and shot toward the door—then stopped, almost as though his shoes had been glued to the lino. He struggled, then, seeming almost torn in two by conflicting impulses.

Then he turned and walked back to her with that insanely good posture, head up, chin up, like a man going to face a firing squad and determined to shame his executioners.

"Sherlock?" she asked, bewildered. This was when he usually raced off, leaving her feeling awed, amazed—but also wrung out and completely irrelevant. He looked down at her, and her breath caught. She'd seen that shattered vulnerability so rarely, but every time it had stolen her heart.

"I'd meant to speak to you alone, but…"his eyes shot around, restlessly, and he growled, "there's no  _time_. I have to go. I…I wanted to apologize. I'm sorry I embarrassed you yesterday afternoon. There was no shame in your laughter or your friendship with Nigel. I wanted to apologize for frightening you and my friends last night. It was uncalled for. I wanted to apologize for interrupting your engagement with Detective Inspector Lestrade. You both deserved better from me. I seem to be apologizing to you far too often lately…or perhaps I'm only beginning to apologize enough. But Nigel is correct. You are a good person, Molly Hooper. You do not deserve to be hurt. I hurt you too often. I am sorry."

It shattered her. She placed a hand on his chest, and said, softly, "I make it hard not to hurt me, Sherlock. I'm sorry about that. And I'm glad to be your friend, even when it's not easy."

He gave a curt little nod. "Thank you, Molly." Then he reached out, and tentatively drew her into a hug, lowering his head over hers.

She'd seen him hug Mrs. Hudson much the same way—Sherlock, who didn't hug or touch, had crossed some boundary that allowed him to treat his landlady with an affection that didn't require personal space that could be measured in leagues. The only time he'd ever hugged Molly, though, was the night he'd died. Then, as now, it hadn't been particularly sexual—but then, as now, it was overpowering.

And then, almost at light speed, he was gone.

Molly made herself breathe. It wasn't the easiest thing she'd ever done, but she managed it. She decided if she kept it up, some day it might be natural again.

Nigel studied her, wide-eyed, then said, contemplatively, "So. How  _did_ your date with DI Hunky Cop go, anyway?"

"Really good, Nige. Really, really good," Molly said, with a shiver.

"Uh…huh. Oooookay." Nigel drew a breath even deeper than hers, and said, calmly, "Molly-me-love, you're in deep, deep trouble. You know that, don't you?"

"Oh, hell, yes," she said.

 


	18. The Devil's Footmen

" _Clietus, I'm booooored,"_  the unmistakable phone text-tone drawled.

John, half-way through a hernia test for a new client, bit back an oath.

"Don't you have to answer that?" Mr. Van Dorn asked, hopefully.

"You'll only have to go through it all over again if I do," John said, firmly—as much to the not-present Sherlock as to his patient. "Now, cough."

The phone drawled its boredom again.

Mr. Van Dorn coughed tentatively, then murmured, "Interesting choice of chime, that. Bored?"

"Flash Gordon. Friend's a fan of period science fiction movies," John lied. He wasn't about to explain why a snag of Flash Gordon had seemed like a perfect pick for Sherlock at the time he'd downloaded it, years before. At least Sherlock was texting, not phoning. John really didn't want to explain…

Oops. Spoke too soon.

"Billy Joel, yeah?"

"Yeah," John said, muting the ring with his free hand. "Loves rock, too."

"Good song, that. 'The Stranger,' yeah?"

"Yeah. Don't ask—it's a long story." He was so very much not going to explain how the sensuous, melancholy music came to be associated with his not-lover male friend in his mind. He'd already run the gantlet of rumored gay-love once. Not again. "Turn your head and cough, Mr. Von Dorn; neither of us want me down here all day. Now, again. Good. Okay, that's all right." He straightened, snapping off the latex gloves. "It all looks good. No outstanding issues, beyond the usual nags: lose a few pounds, quit the smokes. But on the whole you're looking good for your age. I'll have Sharon finish taking down your basics, and we'll schedule your next appointment for six months, yeah?"

Finished, he almost darted from the room, sticking his head into the receptionist's nook. "Buy me time, Sharon. I have to make a call." Once in his office, he slipped the phone back out, pulling up the two texts, first.

_The hunt is on. Meet me at the Royal Marsden. SH_

_Don't dawdle. SH_

He scowled, then dialed, speaking the second Sherlock's line opened up. "I'm busy with patients, Sherlock. I have a job. Responsibilities. And in case you've forgotten, I'm angry with you."

"Yes, yes, I know, and I was going to apologize—very nicely, too. But I'm already several apologies over my recommended limit for the day, with more yet to come, and I need your help. Royal Marsden, John, and soon. I'm already kicking my heels in the lobby."

"Kick away. I've got a woman with a rash and a thirteen-year-old who's worried her tits aren't big enough, and if you don't think those things matter to them you're dreaming."

"They're the dreamers—so safe and asleep they can waste their time fretting over trivia. This is important. If you don't want to come for… if you don't want to come for your own sake, come for Mycroft's. Or for Western Civilization as we know it. But do come."

"This  _is_ 'Western Civilization as we know it.' Sherlock, this is the life you saved me for…or saved for me. I don't know which way that goes. It's the only life I've got when I'm not coping with a Force 10 Holmes Hurricane—and believe it or not, boring though it may be, I value it. It was  _worth_  saving. So, no. I'm not putting down everything to go racing to the Royal Marsden.  _But_ —" He drew in a deep breath, and continued, "but if you can bring yourself to wait, I can shift a couple follow-up appointments and win the afternoon for you."

"This is ridiculous, John. Anyone can look at rashes, and as for a pubescent brat bright enough to realize the size of her breasts is more likely to affect her future than the worth of her character or the quality of her intellect? Tell her most men are morons, but that eighteen's early enough for a plastic surgeon if she chooses to cater to the idiot demographic. Meanwhile, I need you. Here. Now."

"You've got a great future ahead of you: 'Ask Auntie Sherlock.' Thanks for the advice, but I think I'll deal with little…" he glanced at his schedule. "I'll deal with little Angie myself."

"I mean it. I need you over here."

"Why?"

There was a certain quality to Sherlock's various silences…well, not always silences: huffs, grumbles, growls, tooth-grinds—all those expressive forms of not-talking in which he indulged so dramatically. Sherlock was clearly not a happy little detective. There was an impending sound of snarl in his too-controlled breathing. Then he said, bitterly, "Because  _you_  didn't spend a critical ten minutes last night telling Mycroft's senior aide she was a discredit to her employer and totally wet into the bargain… Oh, do stop laughing, John, it's hardly gracious of you."

"And I'm the gracious one?"

"That should be self-evident. After all, I'm the one calling you for help."

"And, yet, I laugh." John grabbed a tissue from the box on his desk and wiped away the laugh-tears and the slight trace of drool from giggling too hard. "Oh, you've dug yourself a deep one, haven't you?"

"Well I was rather hoping you could manage it for me."

"Nope. Sorry, Sunny Jim, this one's on your shoulders. If you can wait till afternoon, though, I'll go along to look stern and parental while you beg pardon, and I'll assure her I'm taking back the car keys and grounding you for the rest of your natural life. I'd do that much just to get a ringside seat when she takes you down."

"What am I supposed to do until then?"

"Practice groveling? I'm sure if you call the Pride of Islamabad she can give you some pointers on that."

"Not funny, John."

"Like you'd know. I promise, it's all laughs from here. Seriously, though, if you can wait, I can clear the afternoon for you."

There was a grumble at the other end of the call, but at last Sherlock sighed. "Very well. I'll run errands in the meantime. I'll meet you at your practice and we can taxi over together. By the way, I left my laptop in the cab last night. Did you…"

"Pitch it out in the middle of traffic, like I should have? No. It's over at my flat. Go on over and pick it up if you like—use the key you had made. Catch some sleep on the sofa while you're at it. You're due a few hours."

"You know…?" Sherlock trailed off, sounding uncharacteristically abashed.

"Yeah. Greg called. You silly prat. Why do you put yourself through this?"

"I get bored."

"Give over, mate. You weren't bored last night."

"No. I wasn't bored."

"Then why?"

"I'm an idiot."

"Which isn't an answer, either, but you won't answer that one until it suits you. Tell you what: go to the flat, have something to eat, and sleep. I'll meet you there, instead of here. Right?"

"Oh, very well, John. You're incredibly bossy."

"Good. Now, sleep, y'hear me? Doctor's orders. No staying up late watching telly, eh?"

Sherlock snorted. "As if. Daytime television is a vast intellectual wasteland, devoid of so much as a scintilla of interest."

"Yes, Sherlock. Go, eat, sleep. Now."

John got through the rest of the morning without thinking of Sherlock—except for a brief few minutes, as he explained to thirteen-year-old Angie that even if she never added another inch to her bust-line, she was developing just fine—and that men were mostly morons, but that if she really wanted to cater to brain-dead idiots, eighteen was quite early enough to be asking about plastic surgery. Then, as the poor girl laughed herself silly, he wondered how Sherlock, of all people, had known just the right thing to tell the child.

XXX

The question answered itself when he slipped quietly into his own flat just short of noon, to find Sherlock folded awkwardly in John's too-short sofa, out cold. His coat was sliding off him, obviously having been put to previous use as an improvised blanket. An empty coffee cup was on the end table, and a shopping bag sat on the floor at the end of the sofa.

He looked barely thirteen, if that, John thought. Even after years away, and who knew what dangers and stresses, Sherlock could still, somehow, give the odd impression that he should be in footie pajamas with a towel pinned 'round his neck, playing superhero. If anyone would know the most meaningful truth to tell a thirteen-year-old, it was Sherlock. It might not be a pleasant, welcome truth, but it would be a truth a child would understand instantly and deeply.

It was really no wonder Mycroft had no idea whether to wrap his baby brother up in cotton wool—or hand him over to the prison wardens for the security of the nation, if not the entire world. In a Harry Potter world it would be a coin-flip whether Sherlock would end up an Auror or in Azkaban. How long had Mycroft watched Sherlock, as he had watched Moriarty, fearing what his brother would next do to assuage his boredom? Fearing he'd choose to be the pirate he'd once dreamed of? How long had he fought to bring Sherlock into the secret service, where he could be kept busy, interested, and safe—with the term "safe" indicating keeping both Sherlock safe from the world, and the world safe from Sherlock?

When John had first met Sherlock and his brother, he'd thought Mycroft entirely too overwrought about Sherlock to believe. Now, years later, he suspected Mycroft consistently underrated Sherlock's potential for mayhem, out of mixed affection and terror.

He still had no idea what catastrophes had driven the brothers apart—but he suspected there was at least one epic tale in there, somewhere. Two intense, egotistical, driven geniuses with that horrible bundle of reserve, passion, and sibling rivalry tangled around them? They must have been as much a disaster waiting to happen as a live round in a game of Russian roulette. It would have simply been a matter of the right cylinder rolling into place, and bang! Tears before bedtime, for certain.

He dropped his bag by the little dining table at the far end of the living room, shucked off his jacket, retrieved Sherlock's laptop from the cupboard, and got two apples from the fridge—a fridge with no human body parts in it, to John's honest relief. The closest he came these days was a beef steak or a tray of bangers. The whole home-morgue routine was up on the top of the list of things he didn't miss about living with Sherlock.

He wasn't surprised when the first crunching bite he took out of his apple brought Sherlock awake instantly. "Morning, sleepy head."

"Euh. Afternoon," Sherlock said, sitting, stretching, and rubbing sleep from his eyes, as he pretended that jumping half-way off the sofa at a sudden noise was normal.

One of John's former girlfriends had compared Sherlock to a cat: "Thinks he's God, expects plenty of attention but only on his own terms, never knows if he wants to be out or in—and no matter what happens, he  _meant_  to do that." She had not, needless to say, been a "cat person." Sherlock had driven her out within weeks of meeting her, very much like a territorial moggie laddering the tights of an unwelcome guest. John hadn't missed her that much, but he had to admit she'd had a keen eye for her persecutor. Her nickname for him, during her brief occupation of the role of John's-girlfriend, had been "Basement Cat."

"You didn't follow doctor's orders. Coffee, but no food. If you had to pick one, you should have eaten," John said. "Here, catch." When Sherlock glanced over, he tossed him the second apple.

Sherlock snatched it out of the air with an effortless snap. "You're as bad as Mycroft. Mother hen."

"I'm a doctor. Comes with the territory. Eat, idiot."

Sherlock bit down. Then, holding the fruit in his teeth, he stood, mumbling, "Go' you so'thing," around the apple's curve. He hooked up the bag with one hand, then finished biting the apple, which fell neatly into his other. He shoved the bag toward John. "It's an apology."

"I don't think you can buy those. I think they've got to be homemade."

"I made it for you myself, just like Mycroft's 'Best Bruvver' mug when I was five. Look and see what you think."

John rolled his eyes, took the package, and fished out the contents. "Oh, a cardboard box. Just what I need."

"Idiot…"

"All right, all right." He popped through the bits of sellotape, lifted the lid, and began to laugh. He pulled it out and held it up for a better view.

It had started life as an innocent, commonplace dart board, but Sherlock had covered the front with a print of a selfie—himself with an expression of camped-up arrogance. Rings had been marked over the image, and titles given to each ring, from the outer— _Utter Prat, 10pts.—_ to the inner— _Sodding Tosser, 100pts._

"Thought it might come in handy, on occasion. Got you a full set of darts, too—the good ones. You can go down th' pub an' show yer mates 'ow it's done, eh?" He had a good ear, and sounded as working class as Alf Garnett, from  _Till Death Do We Part._

"I'm…I'm…stunned. Speechless. It's..." John stammered, still half laughing. What was he supposed to say?

"Goes with your décor, too," Sherlock continued. "Modern mediocre. Sets off the IKEA shelves."

"Sod-off, wanker."

"Wanker's worth twenty-five points." Then, after a fleeting silence, "You will need it, you know. I'm not turning into a nice man, John. Maybe—softer around the edges. With work. But 'nice' just isn't in me."

"I'll settle for you growing into a good man."

Sherlock's reserve fractured for a second, and when it came together it was with a hint of remaining insecurity. "St. John—lost causes."

"That's St. Jude. And St. Rita—she's impossible ones."

"No. It's St. John. Because…you are. A saint among the angels. I don't have to be one to know one." He looked aside, staring fiercely at absolutely nothing at all on the far wall. "I'm…sorry. I'm sorry I was an idiot last night. I'm just not good at feelings. A point I'm making far too often, today. But…" he stopped, his usual fluent rush of words failing him. "I'm…sorry."

And this, John thought, was why he'd chosen Billy Joel's "The Stranger" as Sherlock's ring-tone, in a crazy fit of silliness one night at the pub only a few weeks before Sherlock had "died." All right, the man got it backward. Most people put all the snide comments, sarcasm, self-centered longings, bitter furies, on the inside, hidden away, and kept the softer, sweeter elements of their personalities on the outside where they put on a good show. Sherlock, unique as always, turned it backside-to, and hid the tenderness and decency inside, away from all viewers, including from himself. But when you saw them? Oh, God, it was a sight to see.

"Apology accepted. Me, I'm sorry I forgot you're—"

"Shut up, John."

"No, let me say it. I should have remembered…"

"I said, Shut. Up. This is now a sentiment free zone, John."

"Bugger-all it is. This is my flat and—"

"Booooring. I'm not listening."

"Damn it, Sherlock, you could at least let me—"

"One more word and I really will jump. I've already hugged someone today, and I refuse to repeat the experience."

"Hugged someone? That's out of character for you. Who?"

"La-la-la, I'm not listening, John."

"Greg?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Then who?"

"I'm not doing feelings, John. See me not doing feelings?" He gave a ghastly, toothy grin. "I'm not going there."

John sighed, hands on hips. "You really are impossible, you know."

"Better. Much better. I may even allow you to accompany me to the Royal Marsden after all," Sherlock said, for all the world as though it had been John begging him to come along, rather than the other way around.

"Yeah, ok, fine, whatever," John said, amused. " Finish your apple. I'll call the cab."

He didn't realize until after he'd left that Sherlock hadn't collected his laptop.

XXX

They went up the elevator together in silence. Sherlock was failing to hide his nerves. He shifted restlessly from one foot to the other. He was, John thought, so damned hard to predict. Sometimes he was entirely opaque: if anything lurked behind the façade he'd chosen, no one would see it. Other times he was transparent as a glass of distilled water. Today appeared to be his day for transparency.

Maybe a white night and a few hours spent alone with his own ghosts up on the roof of St. Barts really had been needed—little though John liked the thought.

The elevator car came to the fifth floor. They walked out into the empty aisle. Sherlock licked his lips, scanning the area. Not-Anthea wasn't there, but a nurse John thought he'd seen before was on watch, settled firmly behind the counter of the nursing station. Sherlock walked up to the counter, John striding along behind and to the side, fists shoved into his parka pockets.

"Miss Trapper," Sherlock said, voice vibrating like an aroused cello.

She looked up. Her eyes went cold. "Mr. Holmes."

"I want you to contact  _your_  Mr. Holmes' senior aide."

"No, sir."

"I see. You're very angry with me—you are  _all_  very angry with me for my outbreak last night—and well you should be. I was, of course, entirely beneath contempt. I concede my complete lack of human worth, and say again, I want you to contact Mycroft's aide."

"No, sir."

"Miss Trapaper, I am reserving all such groveling as I intend to do for your associate. If I'm going to sully my knees with institutional floor wax, I expect to do so in front of someone who can actually accomplish something. Now, please, summon the goddess of the blackberry—Anthea-Angella-Ariadne-Amelia, or whatever she's passing herself off as today. Need I sink to the level of asking you to do it for poor, dear Mycroft?"

The look she gave him burned. Then angrily, she keyed in a number on her communications board, and murmured, "The git's here, ma'am. Not leaving till he's talked to you. Shall I have him snagged, bagged and tagged?" She smiled an angry, hard little smile. "Yes, ma'am." She keyed off the call, then looked at Sherlock. "She'll be down shortly. With luck she'll skin you here and I'll get to watch."

He grimaced. "I'm not planning on apologizing ad nauseam to every person I've ever offended, Miss Trapper. It would take far too much time: the list of my offendees dates back decades. Could we please take my profound self-abasement as given, so that we may dispense with the period of active loathing and skip forward to grudging and resentful coexistence?"

"I don't think you're allowed to declare blanket apology by command order, Sherlock," John murmured. "You need a higher rank to do that."

Sherlock wheeled and looked down his nose. "I'm  _not_ a member of Mycroft's system! I am a  _civilian."_ He said the final word with withering conviction.

"That's kind of the problem, mate. In her book that means squat."

"Which sums up the entire problem with the secret service in a nutshell."

"More diagnosis of our short comings, Mr. Holmes?" Not-Anthea stalked down the aisle with a lazy, languid leopardess sort of stroll—in no way intended to be sexy, though if you liked beautiful, curvy women stamped "danger, do not handle" on all surfaces, she was a winner. John worried what it said about him that he found her stunning.

"If I understand my companion's thesis, my opinion should mean nothing to you." Sherlock was a black-maned lion to her leopardess. His head was so high and his posture so regal he almost begged to be stationed outside a public library.

"Less than nothing, actually." Her eyes narrowed, and she drew in her breath to say something more. She never got the chance. Sherlock stepped forward, placed one hand on her shoulder, leaned in, and whispered something in her ear. John couldn't hear what; could only hear the deep husking murmur. He had a perfect view of her eyes though, as they snapped from narrow with anger to wide with shock.

Sherlock stepped back again, moving well outside her private space. "Am I right?"

She licked her lips, then nodded tightly.

"Good. I want two things, and one I have already. Continue to guard Mycroft with your lives, if necessary. The other—" He leaned in again, that deep husking voice murmuring on, pouring out a rapid stream of secret words.

This time her eyes seemed almost to flare, then go still. When Sherlock stepped back, she said, "Are you sure?"

"Of course not. That's rather the problem, now, isn't it? Is it plausible?"

"Unpleasantly so." There was something grim about her reaction, as though Sherlock's comment had presented her with an ugly challenge.

"You can deal with investigation on your side?"

"Yes." She sounded, perhaps, a bit less confident than she might wish, but John could feel determination pouring off her like heat.

"And you can fulfill my request?"

"Yes, though it will take a little while to be sure the rooms are empty and that you're not noticed. I'll have a car meet you in fifteen minutes. Down by the ambulance bays, I think."

He nodded, and collected John with a quick glance. "Very good." He swept off, clearly not planning to waste any more time. John started to follow, then swung back.

"What…Okay, call me crazy, but I just have to know. You were ready to kill him…but you didn't. What  _did_ he say to you that changed your mind?"

She gave him that familiar, "My goodness, he's a little lost lamb!" glance, and said, patiently, "My name." When John failed to understand, she said. "He told me my  _real_  name."

"Oh." Then, as it dawned. "Oh! How did he know?"

One shoulder rose in a shrug. "I have no idea. Shouldn't you run after him and ask?" She was already bending over her Blackberry, fingers flying over the keys.

"Oh, right. Right!" He wheeled and loped after Sherlock, calling back, "Later," though he wasn't sure why. He was only sure that he would see her again.

XXX

"How did you know her name, Sherlock?" John asked, as the car pulled away from the Royal Marsden.

"Really, John? You don't know?"

"You enjoy this far too much," John grumbled. "No. I have no idea. I wouldn't have asked if I did."

"But it was simplicity itself! And you had the advantage on me. I only saw that dreadful tribute video once."

"The video. But—I assure you, she wasn't mentioned. Not by name, not by anything!"

"Of course not. It was about Mycroft. However, you must have noted the subtitles on some of the photos they used. She was amongst the people listed in several of the later shots. I wasn't sure I'd matched the face to the name, though, until the end. As with much of the world, they've fallen into the convention of providing credits at the end of anything that so much as hints at being film. The name of the director matched the name of the young staff member in several of the pictures."

"You could have been wrong."

"Could have been. But that video was put together by someone who not only cares for Mycroft, but who knows him well. I very much doubt there are more than two or three people in all Mycroft's assigned groups who can claim the second distinction, though it would appear he's got quite a following who can claim the first. Of those the demographics of MI5 and MI6 alone would suggest that any others are most likely to be male. It seemed a safe gamble."

"All right, all right," John sighed. "It makes sense. So—what  _is_ her real name?"

Sherlock gave a revoltingly smug little smile. "I leave that as an exercise for the student."

The car took them on a twisting route that led, eventually, to the belly of Buckingham Palace; the delivery entrance. Once there they were met by a liveried footman, who led them to the servant's wing. There they were presented with their own set of livery, and shown into a private room to change.

"We're spying in Buckingham Palace?" John squeaked as he pulled on the formal black trousers.

"We're searching Mycroft's rooms," Sherlock corrected him. "It's not exactly the same thing, now, is it?"

"It's spying, ennit?" John looked down at his trousers and scowled.

"Of a sort."

"And it's in Buckingham Palace, yeah?" He tugged and tried to get them to set properly.

"Yes. That's hardly the point."

"Yeah, well, we're spying in Buckingham Palace," John continued. "I better ask if they've got a shorter pair. These are too long."

"No, you're too short. Footmen are five-foot-eight and over."

"What, they hire 'em by size?"

"They provide the livery. If one man leaves, they hire a new man and reuse it, John. They don't stock it in all sizes. They just hire people who fit what they already have."

"A bit pinchpenny, isn't it?"

"Thrift. It's considered a virtue in a Royal…at least by the Sun, the Mirror, and the Times."

John noted, with mild annoyance, that Sherlock—six foot tall and thin as a rail—fit the formal black suit to perfection—if anything his trousers were a bit short. "Yeah, fine, then. I can't go around Buckingham Palace with my trousers rolled, though."

"Just…shuffle. No one will notice. We only have to make it as far as Mycroft's rooms."

Which was all well and good if you were the one in the trousers that fit, John thought, as he tried to follow their guide and Sherlock. It was another when you were the one tripping over four inches of excess wool and praying you didn't crash into a Ming vase or stumble on the original footstool used to prop up Henry VIII's gouty foot.

At last they were at the doors of Mycroft's rooms again. Their guide unlocked the door, and Sherlock and John slipped inside. Sherlock looked back out. "We'll lock it from here. Can you make sure it's guarded while we search?

The third "footman" nodded. Sherlock closed the door, then looked around Mycroft's living room, eyes racing over every detail.

"What are we looking for?" John asked.

"I don't know," Sherlock said. "Anything that seems wrong. That seems not-Mycroft."

"Oh, and I know him so well to judge. Really, Sherlock, you can't give me a better clue than that?"

"No, I can't," Sherlock snapped. "Now be quiet and  _look_. We've not got all that much time before someone leaks to Uncle William or Beemish."

"Wait. What?" John asked. "We're dressed up like undertakers to avoid being noticed by your Uncle and by Mycroft's backup?"

"John, do at least try to follow along! Why do you think I went to the trouble of discussing it with You Know Who if I wasn't trying to keep this from William and Beemish?"

"Oh, yeah, right, that's just so obvious. We're surrounded by agents and you decide it's inconspicuous to be whispering in her ear in the middle of the hospital."

"Better there than many places. And she's won us some time."

John started sorting through the books on one of Mycroft's bookshelves. (And damn Mycroft—he had the kinds of books John would buy and hope to read to "improve his mind" but would never get around to. Mycroft's books were all well-worn, with marginalia and attached notes. Only Mycroft, he thought, would have a copy of  _Godel, Escher, Bach: An Eternal Golden Braid_ with an aging post-it attached saying, "Fun light reading: send to Sherlock." Worse, only Sherlock would have sent it back with his own post-it responding, "Nice fluff, but haven't you got anything more challenging? SH," in a rough, undeveloped schoolboy hand that suggested he'd read it at about the age of fifteen.) "Time? And why don't we trust them, now?"

"We never did trust them," Sherlock pointed out.

"Beemish, no. Your Uncle William, though?"

"Oh, for God's sake," Sherlock growled. "He is a Holmes. He is able to much the same work Mycroft does—and did so successfully for close to thirty years. Of course I don't trust him!"

"We trust Mycroft," John said, then rapidly revised to account for common sense and realism. "Well, we trust him mostly. Some of the time. At least, to have the right priorities. Somewhat the right priorities. At least, the right priorities for the British Government."

"Don't rattle on so, John, just look, please? Yes, Mycroft's heart is in the right place—assuming he's still using anything as vulnerable as a heart when he could have a Kevlar-coated tungsten-steel implant instead. William's is another matter. He's old school. Very old school. He was brought up at his grandfather's knee, reciting 'If,' and 'The White Man's Burden'—and that was the enlightened stuff. Mycroft may have thought Afghanistan necessary. I'm quite sure Uncle William considered it desirable…and still does."

John, having been there, had a hard time imagining anyone fool enough to think that military action anything but a fiasco. "Good lord. What good did that war ever do us?"

"Ah, but we 'showed willing' now, didn't we? Drew a line in the sand." Sherlock was working his way through a set of drawers in Mycroft's desk. He stopped. "Well. Synchronicity strikes. He kept this?"

"What?" John said, alerted by an odd twist in Sherlock's voice. He looked over. Sherlock was holding a cheap white mug that appeared to have been decorated by a child. It did indeed say, "Best Bruvver." It even had a stick-figure dog that was dwarfed by three huge blue daisies. Sherlock had apparently not been entirely adept with ceramic paints, too, as there were quite a lot of fingerprints scattered about. John chuckled. "I thought you were kidding about that."

"I…was," Sherlock said. "At least—I thought it long since consigned to a dorm skip." His lips tightened, and his brows lowered. He put the mug carefully back in the drawer."No doubt it was a practical decision to keep it. It appears to be the perfect receptacle for paper clips, now."

"Yeah. Of course that's it."

Sherlock was gearing up to say something cutting and spiteful in response, when the clock on the mantal chimed. John and Sherlock both jumped. Then Sherlock frowned, eyes flickering to the door. "It can't be that late," he said, glancing at his wrist watch. "We've only been here… Oh."

Rising, tension apparent in every line and movement, he crossed to the fireplace and removed the clock. He carried it gently over to the desk, sitting in Mycroft's big armchair. He opened the back of the clock, feeling gingerly, delicately, leaving no corner unexplored. He peered inside, using a little pocket flash. He checked the pendulum, scowling.

"What's wrong?"

"Be quiet, John." He leaned back and studied the clock as a whole. He traced its component forms. Then, with a soft "Ah," he gripped the heavy base firmly, pinching two marble panels—and lifted it off its base.

"Yes." He set the main portion aside carefully, then picked up the hollow shell of the base. A second later he took out a slim brass band, approximately an inch in diameter. He frowned.

"What is it?"

"A ring. The wrong ring."

"Nibelung, not Sauron?"

"Hmmm? No. I… It's not Mycroft's ring."

"Even though it's in Mycroft's clock."

"Correct. And even though Mycroft appears to have intentionally buggered the adjustment to make the clock run faster." He frowned harder. "He wanted the clock noticed. He wanted it noticed by me. Why?" He picked the ring up again. "Standard decorative device of the sort used to ornament any number of things. " He turned it around in his fingers. "Oh." He stood, abruptly. "Oh. I think that's it. Come on, John, we've got work to do."

"Huh? What about…" John gestured wildly at the heaped books around him.

"Leave them," Sherlock said, hurtling toward the door. "We've got to go home."

"Home?"

"Baker Street!"

It took longer to do than say, but at last they were at the old, familiar digs. Sherlock raced in, John rushing along behind him. They both caroled out a greeting to Mrs. Hudson as they ran up the stairs and burst into the rooms above. Sherlock snatched an umbrella off the table. He frowned at it—then sighed in satisfied relief.

"Yes, John. Look.  _Look!_ "

There on the handle, part-way down, was a golden band.

John stared at it. "It's Mycroft's umbrella, then?"

"And Mycroft's ring." Sherlock considered it. He pulled the brass ring from his pocket, and compared it to the gold ring. "Mycroft's ring doesn't fit it properly. It's too narrow and too tight—he had to ram it on. But there's just enough room. And no one would notice if they weren't paying attention." He looked up at John. "I wasn't paying attention. Feelings. They blunt the brain."

"Or drive it to greater heights," John said, softly. "You'd never have found it at all if you weren't running on feelings, Sherlock." The glare he got assured him his friend wasn't ready for that bit of truth, yet. He sighed. "All right. Were next?"

Sherlock considered. "I think—Molly's lab, for a start," he said. He gave an odd smile. Tucking the umbrella under his arm, he slipped out his phone and began to text.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes. Footmen in Buckingham Place are indeed expected to be five-foot –eight or over, to fit existing livery. Martin Freeman being five-foot-six it seemed likely he'd be stuck with trousers too long… It wasn't just a wild whimsy on my part.


	19. The Lost Special

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rain it raineth on the just
> 
> And also on the unjust fella;
> 
> But chiefly on the just, because
> 
> The unjust steals the just's umbrella.
> 
> Attributed to Lord Bowen
> 
> Another big chapter. I hope it provides a heartening amount of proper, indisputable Sherlolly-ness to keep your hunger pangs at bay. Have fun, mes petites. Allons-y!

Sherlock and John crashed into Molly's morgue as though blown there by the late autumn winds that had been building over the afternoon. Molly exchanged glances with Nigel: it was the Old Team, back in action, familiar as strong tea and digestive biscuits.

"The x-ray scanner, Molly—the big one, not the little one! I need it, now," Sherlock proclaimed, brandishing an elegant and expensive men's umbrella like a baton gripped at mid-shaft. "Big enough to fit this."

"You're going to x-ray a brolly?" Nigel asked with a snort. "Right daft, that."

"Not so daft as trying to take it apart without x-raying it first," Sherlock snapped. "It's my brother's. God knows what he's done to protect it."

"'S goin' a bit far, ennit? I mainly just keep a tight grip on mine in the Tube."

"You haven't had me trying to steal yours regularly," Sherlock pointed out, though Molly had a gut instinct that from here on in Nigel had best start consulting with Mycroft regarding methods of securing his. Sherlock had a suspiciously devious glint in his eye as he crossed verbal swords with the lab tech.

"You make a habit of it?" John asked, then added ruefully, "What am I saying? Of course you try to steal Mycroft's umbrella, if you have a clean shot at it."

"Not so much, these days. Not since the one he primed with itching powder—dumped an entire load on me the next time I went out in a downpour. I only pinch it occasionally, to prove I still can."

"So why do you have this one?" Molly asked, as she opened the door of the larger scanner.

"Because..." The falter in Sherlock's voice was almost undetectable, or would have been to listeners less accustomed to his usual tones and inflections. He fixed his attention on aligning the umbrella in the scanning chamber. "It was there."

"And Mycroft wasn't."

John could say things like that, Molly thought; say them with that firm, almost authoritative tone that suggested Sherlock wasn't going to be allowed to faff about avoiding core truths. Judging by the sudden tightening of Sherlock's lips, John had struck true. She wondered if she'd ever have the perception and the nerve to strike as cleanly.

"And Mycroft wasn't," Sherlock conceded, his voice armoured and unwavering. He turned and found the viewing screen at the work station behind him. In seconds he had the image up. He hissed in annoyance. "Mycroft, damn you..."

"What?" Molly said. She looked over his shoulder. "What's that?"

"That, my dear Molly, is Mycroft being too clever by half. And, worse, learning lessons from his enemies. You'd think he'd be above learning from The Woman, but apparently not." One long finger pointed to a dark disk embedded in the shaft of the umbrella handle. "Explosive. And there—that's an embedded memory, I suspect. And this, I believe, is a mobile receiver/broadcaster."

"Cell phone in a brolly?" John said, coming to look over Sherlock's other shoulder. "That's a bit too James Bond for me to credit. Mycroft doesn't seem the type to play around like that. He's serious. Responsible."

Sherlock shot him a filthy look. "Mycroft's sense of humor may evade most people, but it's very real. And he takes absolute delight in playing John Steed. I can think of few things that would charm him more than secrets hidden in a booby-trapped umbrella."

"He's your brother," Nigel chimed in, peering in awkwardly from Molly's far side. "You'd know. Seems to me the big question, though, is how we get the secrets out."

"We don't. He'll have followed Irene's model: layered passwords. I don't even know how to send them to the receiver. Yet."

The final added word was said with fierce determination. Molly found herself chuckling.

"What?" Sherlock asked, with a frown.

"You," she answered. "You're not about to give up, are you?"

"Heaven forbid," John said, joining her laughter. "He'd die first."

"Well, he has, hasn't he?" she asked.

John's grin was dazzling. "Yeah, but he cheated—and you helped him, Miss Hooper."

"I just proved you can't beat me at the game," Sherlock snapped. "No one. Including Mycroft." He stood and wheeled back to the compartment, retrieving Mycroft's umbrella. "This is not impossible. Mycroft isn't trying to beat me. He wouldn't have left me a clue if he didn't want it solved."

"He may just have wanted you to know there was something going on," John argued.

"No. It's more than that. He wanted me to find this. He wanted me to investigate—he wanted me out of it completely, as long as he was able to manage it himself. But he wanted me on it when he couldn't be."

"Is it something you can work on outside my morgue?" Molly asked. "I mean, I'll stay open if you need to work, but it's closing time, and I was hoping to get some dinner and some sleep." She risked a glance at Sherlock, and added, "I was up all night."

"Several of us were," John said, grimly. "And I, for one, am knackered."

"Dinner, maybe?" Sherlock asked. "Food, then home?"

"I'm on," Molly said. "All I've got in my fridge today is yogurt."

Nigel raised his hand. "Count me in, too. But then I'm off."

"Not me," John said. "Dead on my feet. Home, shower, microwave, sleep." When Sherlock shot him a slightly panicked glance, he shook his head. "No. You go. I'm going home." He stretched.

Sherlock leaned close, and Molly heard him husk, "John—I don't..." He looked uneasily at Molly and Nigel. "I don't  _socialize_."

"You eat curry. They eat curry. It's not so hard," John said, firmly. "You can do this. You're Sherlock 'I will not be beaten' Holmes."

Molly felt her stomach drop as she realized Sherlock had assumed the invitation was to John—with Nigel and her perhaps as unavoidable add-ons. For a few moments Old Normal Molly squirmed, screaming internally that she should back out now and avoid the inevitable humiliation of rejection...or, even worse, Sherlock sullenly accepting the situation, and then spending the next hour or so venting his resentment in every way he could think of.

New Normal Molly wasn't willing to retreat, though. "We can go to the Pret A Manger over on Holborn Viaduct. They make a good sandwich. Or we can do Smithfield or Barbican for Indian."

"Barbican," Sherlock said, quickly, clearly determined that if he couldn't ditch Molly and Nigel he'd at least put in dibs on the restaurant he preferred.

Molly, feeling much too clever to live, smiled to herself—she'd successfully stacked the deck. "We're on, then. Nige, you good with that?" Not that she had any doubts. Nigel lived for Barbican's tandoori.

"I'm good."

"Great. John, great to see you." She stepped in and hugged him, pleased when he hugged back. "Now, you go home and sleep. You earned it. But call Mary first—let her know what's up here."

He chuckled. "You're teaming up with her, are you?"

"Modern version of the WI," she said, cheerfully. "No jam or Jerusalem, but we stick together, no matter what."

He gave her an extra squeeze. "I'll let her know you're watching out for her best interests."

She nodded; then, feeling far too assertive to believe, she said, "Okay. Sherlock, Nige, help with close-down and then we're off."

XXX

Nigel, to Molly's relief, proved the perfect person to moderate Sherlock. Every time the older man attempted snark, Nigel either topped it with something clever and funny and sweet, or simply nailed him for being a prat in a good-natured, almost affectionate way that reminded Molly of John. Before they'd completed the walk Sherlock had apparently decided ill-humor was a waste of energy and had settled into an easy pace, using Mycroft's umbrella as a cane.

"Sure you want to go smacking that down on the pavement like that?" Nigel asked, looking uneasily at the umbrella. "Won't it detonate?"

Sherlock gave him a vastly superior look and drawled, "Oh, and my brother is so likely to go about with a hair-trigger brolly. I think not."

Nige sniggered. "I dunno, mate: he's related to you. No telling what barmy ideas he'd think sensible."

To Molly's amazement, instead of coming back with an annoyed retort, Sherlock almost smiled—and then casually reached past her to cuff Nigel on the back of the head. "Prat. Mycroft has better sense."

"Better sense than who?"

" _Whom_. And than I do," Sherlock said. For once he didn't sound like the admission of Mycroft's superiority had been dragged out of him with hooks.

"Eh, well—setting the bar low, then, are you?"

Another gentle cuff—but no more. Nigel had apparently slipped into the strange, charmed circle of people Sherlock accepted. Molly was tempted to call the Vatican and declare a miracle had occurred.

The walk over was cold even for November. As near as the Barbican was, Molly still wished she had worn a thicker coat. Nigel, who wore a ghastly purple parka from late September through early May, seemed fine, and Sherlock had The Coat, of course, but Molly was still wearing her light go-to-interview jacket from the day before. She crammed her hands as deep in the pockets as they'd go, walked as fast as she could, and hurtled into the Barbican at high speed, breathing a sigh of gratitude for central heating and the warming scent of spices.

They ordered quickly, then settled into conversation. Nigel again served as the hub, providing a surprisingly strong, well-reasoned and deeply informed defense of popular art forms, particularly adventure-based forms. Sherlock, while tart and determined to maintain much of it was "silly wankers playing games" actually appeared inclined to give the geeks of the world a pass.

"'Course he does, Moll," Nigel chuckled, when she risked bringing it up. "Look at him: overgrown geek. If he didn't have his detective thingy to amuse him, he'd be at a convention decked out as Batman or something."

"Don't be offensive," Sherlock said. "I would not wear a silly costume. It's among the least logical elements of the comic book superhero: what sensible vigilante would go around in tights with spandex knickers on top?"

"Aye, yeah, okay, I'll give you that one. So, what? You'd be writing fan fiction?"

Sherlock sniffed. "Of course not. That would be John's hobby."

"So what  _would_  you do, Sherlock?" Molly asked.

"Fan wank," he said, firmly. "I'd be the idjit on all the fan sites annoying everyone by pointing out they don't know their canon. Worse, I'd be right."

Nigel gasped and dissolved in hysterics. "Eeeeeee! Yes-yes-yes-yes!"

Molly looked at both of them, then turned to Sherlock. "How did you know to say that?"

"What John so cleverly called 'The Case of the Geek Interpreter,'" he said. "Cover persona. It was an interesting introduction to fan culture. I fit in rather well, if I do say so myself."

Nigel fought down his laughter long enough to gasp, "Oh, shite. What was your fandom?"

"I went for the classics: Lord of the Rings. But I had secondary interests in Harry Potter—pro-Snape all the way—and you don't want to hear what I had to say about what DC did to Oracle."

Nigel lit up. "Duuuuuuuude! Favorite X-Man?"

"Xavier, of course. Hank McCoy after that."

"Avenger?"

"Depends on the day. Tony Stark. Bruce Banner. Dr. Strange."

Molly's couldn't believe it. "You're kidding me, right? You know this stuff?"

Sherlock shrugged and tried to look distant and reserved. "Research."

"No way," Nigel declared. "Man knows his fandoms. You picked pretty good, Sherl. Mainstream enough, with just a touch of quirk. So, what's your wank when you're not passing?"

Sherlock looked down his nose. "It was just a cover, Nigel."

Nigel narrowed his eyes. Then he said, "I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total oblitera—"

Sherlock crumpled his napkin and tossed it at Nigel, just barely choking back something between a grumble and a laugh. "Tosser."

"Nailed it, didn't I?"

"Oh, shut up."

"He's embarrassed because it's not all obscure and hipster and cool: one of the big-time  _popular_  books," Nigel told Molly. " _Dune_ is the ego-geek's Mecca. I bet I could tic off the other stuff he'd love, too."

"Don't," Sherlock said, repressively.

"But Sheeeerlock! I haven't even started on the hard-core stuff," Nigel pouted. " _Sandman_?  _Neuromancer_?  _Snow Crash? Watchmen_?"

Sherlock was on the edge of some sort of heated reply when his mobile rang. He pointed at Nigel and said, "You're not safe yet," then answered the phone. "Yes. Yes...what? Oh..." He went tense, then. "Yes. Yes, I can come. Give me fifteen minutes to half an hour. No, taxi. I'll be there." He ended the call and slipped the phone in his pocket, groping clumsily for his coat on the back of his chair. "Mycroft. They think he's coming around. I have to go."

"I can go with you, if you like," Molly found herself saying, remembering Sherlock's response to his brother's illness. Coming out of coma could be rough on the patient and the family alike.

He was about to turn her down... then hesitated, before saying, "I...Yes. Yes. That would be good." He looked around the table, filled with half-eaten bowls of food and baskets of naan. "I'll pick up the bill. Feel free to take the leftovers home."

Nigel, whose income was nothing to write home about, didn't argue. Instead he eagle-eyed Sherlock and said, "Make sure Moll gets some sleep—or make sure she phones in sick tomorrow. She's been up over thirty-six hours already, thanks to you. You don't send her staggering back in tomorrow morning still dressed in her interview clothes, you hear?"

Sherlock nodded, too concerned over Mycroft to come back with any clever sallies. He'd risen, finally, and collected his coat. He glanced at Molly. "Ready?"

She nodded, pulling on her jacket. "You go pay. I'll meet you outside. If I can I'll flag a taxi and hold it for you." They walked together to the front checkout, and she continued on out into the cold. She looked both ways, failing to spot a cab. She frowned and pulled out her phone, logging in to look for the number of a cab company. The icy wind seemed to cut through her jacket. Her silk pants almost might as well not have existed. As Sherlock came out she said, "No cab. I'm calling for one now."

Instead of answering, he leaped at her, knocking her to the pavement just as a car came screeling down the street. Shots stuttered over their heads, peppering the wall of the restaurant. The plate glass doors and windows shattered; glass rained down. Molly shrieked and tucked herself into a ball as best she could under Sherlock's weight. He'd tented himself over her, arms and upper body attempting to shield her from the attack. She could hear the car as it gunned its engine; the screech of metal as it cut too close to another car; the shouts and exclamations of people on the pavement.

For a small forever, she and Sherlock stayed where they were, hunkered on the concrete. Then, cautiously, Sherlock eased himself up, looking around.

"Are they gone?" Molly asked, embarrassed by the quaver in her voice.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "For now." He stood and fished his own mobile out of his pocket. "Hello, Lestrade? I need your intervention. Someone just tried to shoot me, and I can't stay to give evidence: Mycroft's coming around and I need to get to the Royal Marsden. I need you to send people over, but cut me free."

"And me," Molly said, fiercely determined not to be thrown as a sacrifice to Lestrade's investigators.

"And Molly," Sherlock added, without arguing.

As he continued in his negotiation above her, Molly cautiously sat up. She considered standing. She quickly concluded she had better wait a few minutes before she tried. She was shaking dreadfully. Wrapping her arms around herself she stared blankly at the shot-out door of the Barbican. Framed in the ragged edges of glass left in the frame, Nigel stared back, Mycroft's umbrella clutched in his hand.

One and one made two, and then cascaded into a sum too large to express. Feeling panic rise, she risked raising one hand and gestured in a shooing motion. " _Run_ ," she mouthed at him, silently. " _Hide!_ "

Nigel's eyes, already wide, widened further. He nodded and seemed to fade back into the restaurant, disappearing behind other customers gaping out through the destruction.

Above, Sherlock finished his call to Lestrade. He looked down and realized Molly was still on the ground. Leaning over, he offered her his hand. "He's taking care of it. I told him you were safe. That's all right, yes?"

She felt his strength as he pulled her up. "Yes."

"He did ask," Sherlock assured her, soberly. "He does care."

She smiled. "I know." It was sweet Sherlock wanted her to know, though. Greg wasn't the only one who cared—Sherlock cared about her, and about Greg, too.

"He's sending one car just to take us over to the Royal Marsden," Sherlock said. "Police escort, as it were."

"Cheaper than a cab, I hope," she said.

"For us, yes. For the department? No idea what they charge on the budget." Nor, she suspected, did he care. He looked up, then, and she could almost imagine ears pricking. "Here they come. Sirens, coming south on Aldersgate."

She managed to nod. The shock and the cold had hit in full force by then. She was shivering as hard as ever and trying not to cry. She refused to cry in front of Sherlock, not when he was treating her with something like respect at last. He didn't notice, and she was glad of it. Maybe she could pull herself together before he ever did.

The police cars pulled up wailing and whooping. Sherlock left her side, stepping forward and practically grabbing the first officer to step out of the passenger side. Soon he was gesturing, nodding fiercely, and pointing, appearing to give a thumbnail of events for the officer to work from. Then he loped back and grabbed Molly's elbow. "Come on. We've got to get to Mycroft."

She allowed him to drag her along past the waiting cars to one near the end of the line. Sherlock opened the door and let her slip in, easing in after her. He slammed the door, said, "Ready," and the car took off, siren howling overhead.

The noise felt like an attack on top of her shock. She tried to sink into her jacket, ducking her head down. The police car dodged out into traffic at a rate that felt terrifyingly reckless. She pulled in further, wishing her jacket were bigger so she could turtle more effectively. She clamped her teeth so tight her jaw hurt.

Sherlock was rattling on a mile a minute about something... the attack, she thought. Something about his opponents getting desperate. She didn't really care. She didn't even notice he'd asked a question until he repeated it.

"What?" she asked, tightly. "I didn't hear you."

He was silent a moment, then said, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Molly? This is me. Sherlock. Don't waste my time lying. What's wrong?"

"Fine, Sherlock. If you're so smart, you tell me what's wrong."

"It's not exactly like I've got the advantage. Dark car, sirens, you all hunched up like that. Limited detail for observation."

"Then nothing's wrong. Nothing."

She heard him draw in his breath for a sharp response—then stop. He touched her arm. "You're shaking."

"Cold."

"Well, yes, that jacket is perhaps a bit light-weight," he said, almost absently, still studying her. Then, pensively, he said, "You've never been under fire before, have you?"

She shrugged, afraid to answer for fear she'd start bawling.

"It's all right to cry," he said, a bit sulkily.

"No. It's not," she snarled, fighting back the tears. "You'll say horrible things. It's been so nice with you not saying horrible things."

The sirens ensured that the following seconds weren't silent, but they didn't contain any Sherlock-comments. Soon she felt motion beside her, and he said, "Lean forward."

She did. One half of his coat front and all of one arm seemed to sweep around her. He drew her close, sheltering her like a chick under a mother hen's wing. "I'm not going to suggest this is a perfectly good time to cry, because it's not. We'll be at the Royal in about five minutes, which even I will admit isn't enough time for a proper bout of hysterics. But I won't say anything horrible if you cry a bit—or if you cry a lot later. And at least you won't be freezing." He sounded like he was running out of rationalizations, but he continued to hold her close.

The warmth of the coat and his body were lovely, as was the arm around her shoulders. She huddled against his side, and sniffled.

He fished in a trouser pocket and handed her a handkerchief. "Mummy always said a gentleman should never be without one. I find they're rather useful in investigations. You never know when a nice bit of clean cotton will come in handy."

"Won't be clean long," she snuffled, then blew her nose.

"I've got more at home."

She didn't sob. She hardly leaked at all, she thought—only a little. Then she just leaned against him, drinking in the warmth and the completely unexpected luxury of being comforted by Sherlock Holmes. When the car pulled up in front of the Royal Marsden she was almost calm again.

XXX

Dr. Lund met them just outside Mycroft's room. "He's coming around. That's the good news. But I've got to warn you, he's...not very good right now. He's a long way from properly awake, and he doesn't know what's hit him. We've managed to pull the feeding tube—he was choking himself on it. But we may have to sedate him."

Sherlock glared at Lund. "What? He's just coming out of a coma, doctor."

Lund shrugged. "He's panicking. His awareness has come back faster than his understanding, if that makes sense to you."

"He's Mycroft," Sherlock proclaimed, as though that ruled out messy things like panicking when coming around from an extended illness and coma.

"Sherlock," Molly said, quietly. "It's not unusual."

He looked down at her, frown darkening his eyes. "He's  _Mycroft_ ," he said again, more forcefully. Then, plaintively, "He'll get over it, won't he?"

"Probably," Lund said.

"Probably?" Sherlock didn't appreciate the ambiguity.

Lund took a deep breath. "He may have some permanent amnesia. There's a slight chance that the illness or the period he was in coma will have done worse. It's too early to rule it out. Personally, I'm expecting a full recovery. He's almost over the chicken pox, the pneumonia's doing better. His lungs aren't producing as much fluid. The coma wasn't the result of brain trauma, so there's a good chance there's no lasting damage. But I can't promise you, Mr. Holmes. People don't go into comas just because. He was very sick, and he stayed out for a fairly long time. There's always the chance there's some form of brain damage, and even if there's nothing we can spot, sometimes there's lasting cognitive damage."

Sherlock went from his usual Victorian-lily whiteness to a greenish grey. "Then why sedate him?"

"Light sedation. If he's awake but feels threatened there's a serious chance he'll injure himself. He's still on the IV, he's got the drainage tubes still in place. And he's not going to be very strong or very—agile. He's been sick, Mr. Holmes. Very sick. He's not well, yet. A delusional struggle to free himself from his hospital bed won't do him any good, and could do a lot of damage."

Sherlock didn't look as though he liked it. He did look as though he was going to argue. Molly risked touching his arm. "He's telling the truth, Sherlock. Look, before you say more..." she looked to Lund. "Can he go in and see Mycroft?"

Lund nodded, his eyes grateful. "That's why I called him—that and permission to sedate. Familiar faces can help. People he trusts."

"I'm the last person you should have called, then," Sherlock said, bitterly. "His aide, perhaps."

"Sherlock, try. Just try," Molly said.

His lips tightened, but after a moment he nodded.

Lund opened the door and ushered them in.

Mycroft was the wriggling, unhappy focus of too much attention, surrounded by nurses and orderlies trying to deal with wandering hands and a restless effort to move—to move anywhere. They'd succeeded in removing the feeding tube, but a red, bruised streak remained where it had lain on the skin by his mouth, and gummed patches of old tape adhesive clung tight. His eyes veered as he tried to focus. Molly could see he didn't have full control over eye motion, yet. Her heart tightened. She'd seen patients coming out of sedation, and out from comas before. Some woke instantly, minds sharp and in focus. More, though, experienced some degree of confusion and reduced control over motor skills. Mycroft, in her opinion, was coming in on the bad end of that spectrum.

Sherlock's breath sucked in, hard and fast. He seemed unable to move a step further into the room. "Mycroft?" His voice wavered.

Mycroft's head turned, and he struggled to focus on the latest intruder into his private chaos. "Who?" he croaked. His voice was wrecked, vocal cords sore and raw from lack of use and the extended presence of the feeding tube.

Molly was sure the sound Sherlock made was one he'd never want to admit to or own. It wasn't a cry, or a sob, or a moan; it was a little, shocked thing, too weak to survive for long in the open air. She looked over and saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed down fear. "Mycroft?" His voice was almost as broken as his brother's.

"Shock?" Mycroft continued to try to focus, when focus was beyond him.

Molly slipped her hand onto the small of Sherlock's back, feeling the wool strap and buttons that marked out the start of the coat's classic flare. She pushed gently, whispering. "He can't bring you into focus. His motor skills are going to be punk for awhile yet. Get closer, and talk." Moving him forward with one hand, she gestured to one of the nurses to bring the guest chair up to the bedside. She guided him as though he were as ill and injured as his brother, needing a nurse's hand.

He sat heavily.

"Talk to him, Sherlock." She stationed herself behind him, hands on his shoulders.

"Mycroft? It's me. Sherlock."

The unfocused eyes turned toward him. "Shock?" Even through the raw, cracked voice she could hear the fear. "Where am I? What happened?"

"It's all right, Mycroft. It's all right. You've been sick, that's all. You're getting better, now." Sherlock reached out spontaneously, grabbing Mycroft's roaming hand. "It's going to be all right."

"Not... not accide... not... Can't think. Can't  _think._ " The fear jetted up, now, taking control.

If Mycroft's voice and terrified eyes hadn't made it obvious, Sherlock's reaction would have clarified just what it meant to these two brothers to lose their one great ability—the one master-skill by which they managed to survive. Eyes as stricken as Mycroft's, Sherlock rose and fumbled the guard rail down, ignoring the protests of the nurses. He hitched a hip into the space left at Mycroft's waist, then gingerly, cautiously took both hands in his, avoiding the tangle of tubes. "It's all right. It's going to be all right, Buddy."

"Shock—can't stay this way. Promise?"

Molly felt cold to the core, knowing just what Mycroft was demanding.

"Shhh. Shhh. I won't let you get stuck like this. I promise. You're going to be all right, though. Don't be scared. It's going to be all right. You're getting better. I promise."

Mycroft sighed and relaxed, leaning back against the raised head of the bed. He closed his eyes. "Not right. I'm s'posed t' take care 'f you."

Sherlock smiled—a smile that just barely held back tears. "It's all right, Buddy. You do. You always do. This time it's my turn."

When they'd remained together quiet and steady for a few minutes, Molly let the tension bleed out of her body. Keeping her voice low, she said, "Sherlock? Is it all right if I go home, now? I'm dead."

His eyes turned to her. "No. I mean, please, no? They're still holding the room across the hall for me. You can sleep there. Please? I'll take you home later."

What she really wanted was a hot shower, her most broken-in knit nightshirt, and about twenty hours of sleep. But she couldn't quite resist the fear still lurking in his eyes. She nodded. "Okay. Wake me if you need anything."

He nodded, then turned back to Mycroft, stroking his hand with one thumb. "Let Lund know he doesn't need a sedative. Not now. Not while I'm here."

"I will," she said, and slipped out of the room.

XXX

It was near dawn when Molly woke. Sherlock stood at the window, hands deep in his coat pockets, staring out at the silvery sky. She blinked and wiped sleepers from her eyes. "Morning, Sherlock."

He nodded, but didn't say anything.

"How's he doing?"

He almost shrugged, but stopped short of more than a twitch of the shoulders. "Sleeping, now. I think he's doing better. How long does it take to come back properly?"

"Depends," she answered. "Depends on a lot. He's lucky. The coma wasn't from blunt force trauma to the head. But he's been sick. Really, really sick."

He nodded again. After awhile he said. "I couldn't say 'brother' when I was little."

She thought about it, still groggy from too little sleep. After a bit she managed to put it together. "So—Buddy?"

"Yes."

"And Shock. Short for Sherlock?"

"My parents wanted Sherry. Mycroft said it was unkind enough to stick me with Sherlock without saddling me with Sherry. He shortened it to Shock. Or Shock-o. Or Shocker. Or Shock-Jock. And he made it stick, too. Even at King's. I still went through hell at school, but at least I didn't go through hell as Sherry."

"Intelligent man, your brother," she said, sitting up.

"Quite."

She nodded. Eventually she said, "Someone tried to kill you last night."

"Mmmm."

"Someone knew Mycroft was coming around?"

"Probably. They're running out of time."

"Time for what?"

"I have no idea."

She moaned, softly. "Normally you'd think that was fun, wouldn't you? A game." Every tone of her voice made it clear that, in her opinion, it was proof he was a bit crazy.

He snorted. "Normally, it doesn't put my friends and family in danger." The gray light of the morning lit his face, silver-plating his profile, glowing in blue-green eyes. There was something achy in his voice, still grieving from the night before.

"What do you need?" she said.

His eyes darted to her. He shook his head, a tiny motion. "I don't know." She could hear the confusion and misery.

She stood. Drew in a breath and stepped close. Staring at his chest, she said, "I won't say anything horrible, you know."

The laugh he gave was tiny, and forlorn. "No. You never do, do you?"

She risked grabbing the front edge of the coat, where it lay open. She gave a little tug.

With a weary sigh he swung the coat wide, never taking his hand out of his pocket. He pulled her in under his wing, drawing her to himself as though he was comforting her sorrow and fear.

She leaned in close, slipping her arms around him. She did cry, a longer cry than the night before. If the palms of her hands told her that he cried silently, too, she didn't make him pay for her knowledge.

Finally, they drew apart. Molly mopped her face dry with his handkerchief and ignored him doing some mopping of his own with a tissue from the bedside table. Both politely pretended nothing of any great moment had happened.

"I'll call a cab and see you home," he said.

"No," she said, firmly. "Call the cab, but then sleep here. Mycroft may need you."

"All right, but you're calling in sick today."

"No, I'm not. I've got a job."

"Calling in sick. Nigel will kill me if you don't."

"Pfft. Nigel. You can... Oh, my God." She froze, staring at Sherlock. "Oh, my God. I forgot."

"What?" he asked, suddenly on alert.

"Nigel's got Mycroft's umbrella."

 


	20. The Silver Blaze

What he remembered afterward was drawing a deep breath, preparing to deliver a blistering assessment of Nigel, Nigel's folly, and Molly's complete and utter idiocy in failing to tell him about that much, much earlier. Before he could speak, though, the world dimmed, took a lazy twirl or two—and disappeared, leaving only the sound of surf and the sensation of falling.

Later, Sherlock conceded to himself that fainting had probably been the best possible outcome. If he'd stayed upright he'd have said quite a few "horrible" things to Molly Hooper—and he'd been trying quite hard to cut back on his horrible-rate. That didn't make him any happier about it, though. Of all the stupid, humiliating things that could have happened, dropping like a sack of potatoes on the lino of the hospital floor was among the most stupid and most humiliating.

When he came to he was still on the floor, attended by an audience he would gladly have done without. He flailed, determined to sit—only to be pinned on his back by the firm hand of the woman squatting beside him, scowling. To add insult to injury, she was a tiny smidge of a thing, with no sign of regular work-outs. She should not have been able to pin him so easily.

"Lie still or I'll have you stapled to the floor." He felt her slip something over one finger. She waited a moment then slipped it off. "Pulse and blood pressure are better. Both still below normal, though."

"I'm fine," he snapped, trying to rise again. "I just fainted."

"Oh, right. 'Just fainted.' Let me guess: you're one of the ones who say, 'I'm fine, only a scratch, just lopped my arm off, it's nothing, right as rain in a minute.'"

Somewhere out of Sherlock's line of site he heard Molly murmur, "That's him!"

He twisted his neck, trying to bring her into view. "Traitor."

"Never hide the truth from your doctor," his attendant quipped. "Leads to mistakes. Tell me, before I start putting you through a battery of tests, have you been doing anything that might logically explain dropping like a pole-axed steer? Sick? Drugs? Diet?"

"Not sick, I'm clean, and I ate just last night," he snarled. "And you're not my doctor. Leave me alone."

"Dehydration?" she continued, ignoring his dismissal.

"Had a cuppa around midnight. Now sod-off."

She cocked her head like an intrigued street sparrow eying a crumb of pastry. "Midnight? Hmm. Sleep patterns?"

Before Sherlock could answer, Molly said, "Non-existent. I doubt he's had six hours the past three days, and his rest cycle will have been disturbed well before that. His brother's sick, and he's been overextending."

"Total traitor!" he squalled.

"It's silly prats like you who keep NHS employees like me over-worked and under-paid," the little doctor said, grimly. "Sleep-dep is nothing to play with. You're thin as a rail on top of it...enough to raise questions of anorexia. No wonder you went down."

"Do stop wittering on. I'm fine—and I'm getting up, now."

A heave served only to prove he was not, in fact, getting up. Truly, one tiny woman should not have been able to do that. Perhaps she had arcane martial arts training, passed on by occult masters on a high mountain in Nepal?

"If you're fine, how do you explain landing flat on your back on the lino?" she challenged him.

A quick race through his mind palace turned out a variety of plausible alternative explanations—all of them enough more alarming than sleep deprivation as to ensure the Tiny Doctor would never let him up until she'd drawn blood from every major vein. Even then she'd only have him wheeled off to get an MRI or a CAT-scan or something else nasty and unendingly boring. "I may be running a bit short, but—"

"When is the last time you had a full night's sleep?"

He had to think about that harder than was desirable. He'd had none last night. Barely two hours on John's sofa the day before. There was the long black night of despair. Before that the night of pondering the catastrophic aspects of caring for people, when he'd walked home from the Royal. He had gotten some sleep that night, hadn't he? In the armchair at 221B? There had been some uneasy nights in the hospital room set aside for him. But to firmly and clearly recognize a complete night's sleep, as defined by particulars like "lying in your own proper bed," "actually entering deep sleep and experiencing some REM sleep," and "not staying awake most of the night fretting and churning," he had to go back before the Halloween Party and Mycroft's illness.

"All right, I may be a  _little_ sleep deprived," he admitted.

"By which I am to understand you're running on vapour and would appreciate a litre jug of double-espresso and an injection of something chemically exciting?"

The thought of either was bliss. "If you'd be so kind?"

"Bah!" She exploded with annoyance. "No! Dolt. Moron. Idiot. You need  _sleep_ , not stimulants. Come on, we'll help you up and you can have a nice long lie-down on the bed, here."

"I can't," he growled, as the Tiny Doctor and what he could only think of as her henchmen started hauling him up from the floor. "I've got to see a geek about a brolly." Then he started giggling, imagining John blogging "The Adventure of the Brave Little Fanboy." He knew it was adding no credibility to his argument, but he couldn't hold back the sniggers. Still, he tried. "Our friend Nigel's got Mycroft's umbrella, and we've got to reach him before the assassins do."

"Uh-huh," the Tiny Doctor said. It was one of those sounds that exceeds mere incredulity and achieves complete, soul-destroying disbelief. "Yeah, sure. Whatever."

"Really," he said as they dumped him on the bed and pushed him backward. "Ask Molly."

"I'm calling John," Molly said, still beyond his line of sight. She sounded a bit frantic. "He'll know what to do."

"He's prepping for surgery," Sherlock grumbled.

"How do you know?" Molly said. He could hear the blap-blap of John's phone ringing across the room.

"I hacked his work calendar yesterday, now, didn't I?" It seemed a perfectly normal statement to him, but several of the hearty henchmen seemed to find it exceptionally humorous. "I kept asking him to come play when he was busy," he added, hoping an explanation would help. "It's easier if I know to schedule the corpses and murder sites in around the appendectomies and pubescent girls with no breasts."

Every time he tried to sit up the henchmen pushed him back down onto the mattress. Giving up he sighed and relaxed, crossing his feet and folding his hands beneath his chin, looking for all the world like a prayerful knight carved on the lid of a medieval tomb. The position was both soothing and entertaining, always ensuring amusing responses from those who witnessed it. He closed his eyes.

"John? It's me," he heard Molly say, as the henchmen continued to have a jolly chuckle at his expense."Yes, sorry, Sherlock said you had a surgery this morning, but we need your help. He pushed the whole sleep-free and proud thing a bit too far and took a header this morning—out cold on the lino, you know—and now he's trying to convince us he can keep on going like the bleeding Duracell Bunny* and the trouble is we could really stand it if he could, because we got shot at last night and Nigel's off hiding from assassins and he's got Mycroft's umbrella, and... What? Oh. Yes. No, you're right—I doubt you'd want to re-anesthetize her, no. What? Get Mycroft's not-Anthea? What? Ok, I'll give you to Sherlock." He opened his eyes and looked at her, and she shoved the phone toward him. "He wants to talk to you. Meanwhile, does anyone know who the  _other_  Mr. Holmes' senior aide is, and how to reach her? John says her name isn't Anthea, though I don't see how that helps..."

Sherlock took the mobile. "John, don't waste time lecturing—Nigel from the lab has Mycroft's umbrella, and I've got to reach him and figure out how to bring him in safely. Yes, Molly was telling the truth, someone tried to shoot us last night coming out of the Barbican. No. No idea—or, too many ideas. I need you to call Nigel and get him over to your place. I'll send guards around to pick him up. What? –Molly? What's Nigel's number?" he asked. When she'd given it, he returned to the call, reeling the numbers off easily. "Got that? Good. Call Nigel before your appendectomy, not after, please: the people hunting us are not pleasant at all."

He ended the call, and was handing the mobile back to Molly when Mycroft's aide arrived, Blackberry in hand and in use. Barely wasting a glance at Tiny Doctor, she said, "Thanks for seeing to _him_." She spared Sherlock a glance, adding. "He's our problem, now. More's the pity."

Tiny Doctor scowled. "And you are?"

"Me? I'm not Anthea."

"Pardon?"

"Oh, no need to apologize. I'm always not Anthea. Except when I am. But that's only for special assignments. Today I'm Emma."

Tiny Doctor frowned, suspicious. "Emma who?"

"Peel."

Tiny Doctor scoffed. "Oh, really?"

The aide looked at her compassionately, then shook her head. "No. Not really."

Tiny Doctor sputtered. "Why should I leave this man in the hands of a woman who claims to be a fictional character?"

"No, no," Not-Anthea said. "I told you, I'm really  _not_ Emma Peel." She slipped a hand into her pocket, and pulled out a governmental ID, flashing it quickly and tucking it back. "Special Services, doctor."

Tiny Doctor's hands landed on her hips, and she scowled at her opponent. "I'm not getting a straight answer, am I?"

Not-Anthea looked at her in almost cheerful sympathy, shaking her head. "No. Sorry." Sherlock almost expected her to offer the doctor a lolly to make up for the pain.

The other woman sighed, then glanced at her henchmen. "Ok. Show's over. The British government's taking over care of the sleep deprived."

"Not the British Government," Sherlock murmured. "He's across the hall. She's just a minion of the British Government."

"Chief minion," Not-Anthea murmured back. "Do your research."

"Does that mean you're not-Igor, too?"

"Oh, no. Definitely  _not_  not-Igor," she declared. "I leave collecting the brains and bodies to you."

Tiny Doctor sighed and left, her retreat marked by a backward look that made it clear she thought them all mad.

"You enjoyed that entirely too much," Sherlock assured his brother's aide.

"I know. Shameful to indulge myself. But it  _is_  one of the perks of the job."

"Really? Mycroft never told me that part," Sherlock said, putting on his best affronted manner.

"He says there's no point trying to tempt you with a privilege you already usurp in any case," she said. "Now, someday he may bother to explain the advantages of the Ernest Bunbury Directive. You'd like that, and it's much easier to pull off with the British Government helping you."

Molly, who'd come to stand at the head of Sherlock's bed, said sternly, "Focus, people. Nigel? Umbrella? Assassins?"

"Oh, bloody hell. Right." Sherlock sat up, swung his legs over the edge of the bed—and then struggled to keep the room from spinning again. Struggled harder to keep Molly and Not-Anthea from realizing...

...Failed. The two women clucked and tsked and tried to get him to lie down again. He barely managed to resist. Molly said to Not-Anthea, "That's the problem. He's pushed too hard. But we've got to find Nigel."

"The young man from the morgue?" Not-Anthea asked.

"You know him?"

Not-Anthea shrugged. "He's not a primary subject of observation, but he sees several of our code-reds on a regular basis. We consider him a subject of collateral interest— interesting by virtue of his associates."

"That's not fair," Sherlock said, "Nigel's interesting in his own right." Then he wondered, a bit muzzily, when Nigel had come to be someone he considered interesting, rather than just "no Molly Hooper." "He's in danger."

Not-Anthea frowned. "I know the two of you were attacked last night, but how is Molly's lab tech in danger?"

Molly and Sherlock between them managed to bring her up to date on the umbrella, the dinner at the Barbican, the shooting, and Molly telling Nigel to run. Sherlock, to his embarrassment, kept losing track of bits of the story, and Molly had to fill in for him.

He was not entirely polite about it...perhaps less polite because his muddled mind reminded him far too much of Mycroft's terror and disorientation. If it felt this bad to be running on too little sleep, how bad did it feel to be Mycroft right now? How bad would it feel if the worst possible case proved true, and Mycroft never fully recovered? He shivered, trying not to think about it. Mycroft permanently disabled? Having to make a choice for him about whether he was still capable enough to enjoy life, or whether he'd want to suffer a convenient "accident"?

He didn't want that kind of responsibility.

Being sleep deprived had the added disadvantage of reducing his control over his memory. Random mental shrapnel from the past decades rocketed around his mind, freeing shards of broken relationships, gushing gouts of words he'd once said—and ever since wished he could take back. He kept coming back to a memory of Mycroft leaning wearily against a wall in the nursery of the old family home, back pressed into glossy, white-painted wainscoting, hands covering his face. He knew there were tears behind Mycroft's hands—knew because he'd been the one to drive him to them.

" _For God's sake , Mycroft, just kill me. It would be easier than this. You've killed for Queen and Country. Why not just once for me?"_

" _No."_

" _Why? It's no good going on, now is it? I've well and truly buggered myself. Hell, what good's having an assassin in the family if you can't call in a favour when you need one?"_

" _I'm not an assassin, Sherlock."_

" _What's the distinction? Or is that another state secret you can't tell me?"_

" _You idiot."_

" _That's right, rub it in. I can't go on this way."_

" _It will get better. I promise."_

" _And if it doesn't? I can't live like this. I can't think straight. Do you hear me? I. Can't. Think. It's killing me already."_

" _It's withdrawal."_

" _It's hell. What if I never get better than this, Mycroft? What's next? Kill me, damn it. Or let me go. I'd have reached there soon enough if you hadn't interfered."_

_Mycroft had broken, then. Leaned against the wall. Covered his face. "Please, Sherlock, just stop making the choice necessary in the first place. Please? I don't want to make that choice."_

" _Then you should have just left me where you found me, you bastard."_

" _No." Mycroft had straightened, wiping his face with the sleeve of his clean, crisp white shirt. "I'm not giving up on you, you idiot."_

" _I wish to hell you would," Sherlock responded. He'd rolled over on the bed, turning his back to Mycroft, curling around himself, refusing to look anymore. "Just leave me to go to hell my own way, brother-dearest. I don't need help to manage that. I can find the way on my own."_

_Behind him, Mycroft had said, "No."_

_It was the first time Sherlock ever heard the voice of the Ice Man. It wasn't the last._

Mycroft had been younger then; so had Sherlock. Over time Mycroft had built defences; so had his brother. But Mycroft had never broken the faith—not by intent, anyway. By miscalculation, yes, but never by intent.

In Sherlock's memory, though, Mycroft stood there forever, leaning against the wainscoting, sun from the far window turning his white shirt to a silver blaze, trying to hide his tears.

Sherlock was falling.

"Damn it," Not-Anthea snapped, her unflappable facade shattered as she caught him.

His eyes snapped open. "What?"

"You fell asleep," she snarled. "Right there in the middle of the discussion. You  _fell asleep._ "

He frowned and tried to pull himself together. "I'll work past it. Just get me a cup of coffee."

"No," Molly said. "It doesn't work that way. You can only push so far, Sherlock. After that your mind just shuts down. You start dreaming in real-time, and then you stop tracking at all. You have to sleep."

"I have to find Nigel and that umbrella. Has John called?"

"He called ten minutes ago," Not-Anthea said, grimly. "Nigel's not picking up his phone. John keeps ending up routed to voice mail."

"I have to look for him, then," Sherlock said, trying to stand again. "Where would I hide if I were a fanboy?" He sniggered. "Any conventions in London this week? Gaming tournaments? Book signings?"

Molly growled—literally growled—and shouldered Not-Anthea aside. She shoved him, hard. "Cut it out, Sherlock."

"Or what? You'll tell me how horrible I am? I'm not a nice person, Molly. I'm not nice, and I'm not reasonable, and I honestly care bugger-all what you or anyone else thinks of me. But I am a good detective, and I intend to detect Nigel."

"No." Not-Anthea was fierce. "You're going to give me and my team time to review the CCTV footage from last night around the Barbican. You're going to let us investigate to determine who's likely to have been behind that attack. You're going to let us investigate your friend Nigel—he may be somewhere easy and obvious. Most of all, you're going to go to sleep and you're going to stay asleep until your brains come back from the far galaxy, because once we've done the review we're going to need you...because we don't have your brother. Do you understand, Mr. Holmes?"

"Listen to her, Sherlock," Molly said, still growling. "She's right."

He blinked at her. His eyes burned. He frowned.

Not-Anthea sighed and covered her face with her hands. "Sherlock, you're supposed to be smart. Could you please, please, be smart enough to lie down and go to sleep? Please?"

"I want to go home," he said. He could hear that he sounded like a toddler, and he found it impossible to care. "Take me home. Please?"

"Take him home," Molly murmured. Her hands gathered his and held them softly. "Send someone to keep an eye on him. I wouldn't trust him to stay in bed otherwise. But let him go home."

Not-Anthea sighed, and dropped her hands. She looked almost as exhausted as Sherlock felt, but she hadn't been crying...no tears. She sighed heavily. "Home, then. Baker Street?"

"Please?" he said. He wanted the familiar walls with the atrocious wall paper and the worn furniture and all the hallmarks of home.

"All right," Not-Anthea said, and made it so.

XXX

He woke slowly. His mind, usually given to instantaneous clarity, rose up into consciousness a layer at a time. He was aware first of the sheets—clean and crisp, smelling of laundry soap. Someone had changed them, then. The pillow—so cool. He rolled and sighed, stretching. Dreams lingered for a moment, trailing memories of tears and daffodils in the park around the family home, then disappeared completely, dispelled by his awareness of the fading light from his window. It was evening, then... his sleep schedule would be weeks working back around to daylight hours. The room was chill. He should go in the living room and light the fireplace. Make tea—if whoever was moving around in the kitchen hadn't already.

Who  _was_  in the kitchen, then?

Memory stirred. Not-Anthea was supposed to leave someone with him, wasn't she? No doubt one of Mycroft's lesser minions.

Sherlock sat up. He stretched. Shower? God, yes, shower. His sheets might smell of laundry soap, but he was quite sure he didn't, and hadn't for days. He ambled to the little lav. A half an hour later, scrubbed, shaven, tooth-brushed, and shining, he shucked on his blue robe and padded out into the living room.

"Evening, sunshine," Lestrade said. He was lying on the floor in front of the fireplace with a large mug of tea, working a crossword. "Kettle's still hot in the kitchen, and there's Chinese delivery on the way. Pork lo mein, General Tso's, broccoli and mushrooms in oyster sauce."

"I love you. I think I'll see if Mrs. Hudson will let me keep you," Sherlock said, and headed toward the kitchen to collect a mug of tea. He returned and eased himself into the comfort of his armchair, sucking down tea hot and strong enough to scour away the last traces of exhaustion. "Mycroft once argued that hot black tea constituted sufficient proof of God. There are times I agree with him."

"Somehow I don't see your bother as the pious type."

"He's not. He's the rigorous type. Puritan agnostic to the bone. God can't be proven, but can't be disproven. As such, I think he regards the Church of England as a rather elegant form of whistling in the dark. He's particularly fond of it when it's whistling 'God Save the Queen," or 'I Vow to Thee My Country.' Or 'Jerusalem.' He quite likes 'Jerusalem.' But, then, he would. Any word on how he's doing today?"

"Still missing a fair number of marbles. They've been able to determine he's got limited amnesia—can't recall much of the past month, so near as they can tell. Doctors say it's not uncommon to lose a chunk. The big question is whether it will come back, and no one knows for sure. Meanwhile he's calmer. That aide of his is keeping someone he knows with him at all times. It appears to help."

Sherlock nodded. "Yes." He thought he'd feel Mycroft's hands in his forevermore—feel them hang on as though he was his brother's anchor. "And she's arranged the same for me, I see."

"Yeah, well. It's not like you were at your radiant best by the end there, were you, sunshine? She's supposed to come on over later this evening with the CCTV analysis and whatever else they've come up with. John's coming over later, too."

"So John's the night shift?"

"Eh. Mary's out of town, and it's not like he's not at home here, yeah?"

"Yeah. I'm not sick, you know. Or using. I just—pushed too hard. You don't need to provide a keeper."

"Sherlock, I know you prefer to act like the sun shines out your arse, but be real, please? There's not a one of us who doesn't know just coming home's been a lot for you to deal with. Then Mycroft, and now people taking shots at you? Give yourself a break...and let us treat you like you're a lowly mortal for a change. Even if it does make your eyes red, your palms itch, and your fangs grow."

He laughed, then sang badly, "Awooooo-werewolf in London!" He wavered for a moment, then, staring into his mug, he said. "I hugged Molly this morning. She was crying. I think she was still a bit shaky from being shot at. I kind of cried, too. I just—I thought I ought to tell you." Saying it felt a dozen different kinds of horrible, but he felt obliged.

He couldn't bring himself to look up, but he could hear Lestrade take a deep sip from his own mug. After a second, the older man said, calmly, "'Ought to tell me' why?"

Sherlock shrugged. "This tea's really a very nice shade of rust. I wonder if there's a way to gauge the exact blend of tea-to-milk to get particular shades. A sort of Pantone chart for tea."

Lestrade snorted, then started clucking, softly. "Buck-buck-buck-buck..."

Sherlock's eyes shot up. Lestrade was grinning. Sherlock scowled back at him. "I'm not a coward, Lestrade."

"Mmmm-hmmm. So why 'ought to'? Friends hug friends. They cry together. It happens—and the world's a better place for it."

"You're dating her."

"Yeah? And? Sherlock, I'm not ten and in the middle of my first crush. At this stage in the game she could be dating a dozen other guys, including you, and I wouldn't feel betrayed. I don't own her—and I'm really happy to see her finally start to bloom. She has it coming to her. I'm just glad to be part of it."

"Oh." Sherlock wasn't sure what to say. Somehow he'd expected—what? More angst? Yes—more angst. A lot more angst.

Lestrade sighed. "Look, thanks for the thought. Maybe even keep me up to date if things change. But you don't have to treat me like I'm made of glass. I mean I know you're trying to improve, but—damn, Holmes, after knowing you for going on a decade, I'm not going to know what to do if you start treating me like my feelings matter. It's downright eerie." He gave a campy shudder. "I keep wondering if you've been possessed and we need to call the exorcist."

"I didn't think 'being nice' was a sign of demonic possession."

"Sunshine, if Beelzebub possessed you it would be a character upgrade."

"Moron." He would never admit he said it fondly—but the truth was, he did.

"Hey, Sherlock?" Lestrade said, "What's an eight-letter word that goes with 'heart of oak'?"

Sherlock smiled into his tea, and did not say, "Lestrade."

XXX

Sherlock changed into proper clothes. The Chinese food arrived. John arrived wearing one of his cable jumpers and carrying a bag of Thai take-out. Not-Anthea arrived with a briefcase full of files and a box of pizza. Then Molly knocked at the door wearing a worried expression and bringing fish and chips

"Well," Lestrade said as he and John put out plates and balanced cartons of food on available surfaces. "We're not going to starve, are we?"

"Yoo-hoo! Sherlock, dear, I saw you were having a party, and I thought I'd bring some goodies," Mrs. Hudson said, craning her neck around the edge of the door. She was carrying a vast bowl of onion dip and an even vaster bowl of potato crisps.

"All we need now is beer," John said.

"Scotch," Sherlock muttered. "Straight up."

"Tea," Lestrade said, firmly. "Or coffee. We'll all think better with caffeine instead of booze."

"Think?" Mrs. Hudson asked. "Oooh, Sherlock, a new case?"

"Not exactly," he said. "A friend's disappeared. We're trying to find him." He grabbed a slice of pizza and slipped back into his chair like an emperor occupying his throne. He looked at Not-Anthea. "What did you get off the CCTV?"

She slipped a huge pile of screen captures out and handed them to Sherlock. "So far, nothing. We can find the three of you going into the Barbican, but haven't even managed to spot him going out—though that's not necessarily a surprise. There was a bit of a stampede for the back door after the shooting. But you'd think we'd spot someone with an umbrella."

Sherlock flipped through the shots, a page at a time. He went through the pile once. Twice. A third time. "There," he said. "He appears to have spotted the cameras and kept his face away. And he nicked someone's coat and hat, too, but he's still wearing hospital clogs. Looks like he wore the coat over his own, to change his shape, too. Goodness—our Nige is a clever little boy, isn't he? But no brolly. What did he do with the brolly? Did you find it on the premises?"

"No," said Not-Anthea, "and we've been through twice since this morning. First time was a bit sketchy: the owners had in half the builders in London to evaluate the place and secure it. We ended up having to kick the whole lot out. Second time, though, we pretty much got down to the bug on the wing on the bird in the nest on the branch on the tree in the hole in the ground, and the green grass grew all around, all around. No umbrella, not even one of those folding ones you can fit in a tote."

"So. Two problems," said John, frowning as he collected the photos from Sherlock. "One's to find Nigel, and the other's to figure out what he did with the umbrella."

"How far from the Barbican have you collected CCTV images?" Lestrade asked. "Now that Sherlock's managed to ID your boy, you can try to trace where he went."

Not-Anthea nodded, already typing into her Blackberry. "Sherlock, can they send it to your email address so we can print out images?"

He nodded. "Yes. Can they do an image trace on Nigel's shoes? I doubt he'll find a replacement for those too quickly."

"Don't know if the analysis is that good, but we'll find out," she responded. A second later she said, "They think they can. They've managed to follow him as far as St. Barts. He goes in—and then we lose him again. No sign of him coming out."

"Spare clothes in his desk drawer," Molly said, quickly. "Sometimes work is messy. Best to have extras. Sometimes he goes on a date, too—I know he's got things so he won't have to go home if he's in a rush."

"Shoes, too?" Sherlock said, expecting the answer.

"Oh, yeah. I know he's got a pair for when he's going clubbing," she responded.

"He really is a clever, clever boy," Sherlock said, unexpectedly impressed at Nigel's improvisational abilities. "He'll have put some thought into ways to change his appearance more. Do we have images from St. Bart's, yet?"

The printer was soon churning out pictures by the dozen. The group went through them steadily.

"Here," John said after a moment. "Cut his hair, from the looks of it. Dyed it, too. Dyed it? How...?"

Sherlock snatched the grainy image, and frowned at it. "Iodine, maybe? Brown, now, anyway. But you're right. It's Nige. And he's changed his shape again. Put on two stone, from the looks of it. Padded belly? Cotton in his cheeks? Taller, too—heeled boots. Where did he get those?"

"Staff locker room, maybe?"

"Maybe. Under the circumstances he might have felt entitled to break a lock or two. And he's carrying a full tote—who knows what supplies he's added to his set?"

"I'm going to have to recommend this one to Mr. Holmes," Not-Anthea said, contemplating Nigel's abilities. "He's always looking for fresh talent."

No one commented that it would have to wait until Mr. Holmes was able to return to action.

They were able to track Nigel for blocks—but lost him in Farringdon Station, where he took advantage of a missing CCTV camera to disappear.

"Probably nipped into the gents and changed again, too," Lestrade muttered. "Sherlock, if this man ever goes bad I want to know. He's a menace."

"He does seem to love his cosplay," Sherlock conceded. "Good at it, too."

"You really should see him as Tom Baker's Doctor," Molly said. "He'd convince The Master himself. Give him a working sonic screwdriver and a Tardis and he'd challenge the known universe. And that's in spite of being inches too short."

"Yeah, but how do we find him now?" John grumbled. "He's disappeared like a ghost. He could be anywhere in London. He could even have gone back to his place and gotten more supplies and we'd never know it."

"Mmm. Have we traced his credit card use? Or banking?"

Not-Anthea typed quickly into her Blackberry, and in seconds answered, "Takes out five hundred quid at the ATM in Farringdon Station, and not a peep since."

"Plans fast. He's got cash to see him through and he can run for a long time without drawing attention to himself." Sherlock sighed. "He's not going to be found unless he wants to be. I think we need to go at this from the other direction. Mycroft's umbrella can't have left the premises without being spotted. What do we have on the Barbican?"

Not-Anthea pulled out another pile of images from her briefcase. "I warn you, it's a nightmare. Again, half the builders in London there, bringing things in and out."

Sherlock swore when he saw the activity the CCTV had recorded. "What were you thinking? There's boxes in and boxes out—anyone could have found it and walked off with it and we'd never spot it."

"We didn't exactly have a choice," Not-Anthea said, bitterly. "First it was the police, and then it was the workmen. We were apparently third in line to get on the property."

"Lestrade, did your people have anything?"

"No, sunshine, bugger-all."

Sherlock grumbled and sulked and ate cold General Tso's while the rest of the group went over the images fruitlessly. Nigel was gone, and too keen to be spotted by anyone until he chose to be. The umbrella appeared to be gone without a trace. All in all it was a serious setback. He pouted, collected a new cup of tea and his laptop, and settled down to watch his unexpected flat full of helpers over the top of the screen, while lazily clearing out dead files and junk emails.

John had set himself up on the sofa, lacking the old arm chair—which was back at his new place, looking lost and pitiful among the IKEA shelves and tables. It was wonderful to see him, blond head bent over a pile of printouts, sipping tea and frowning. Not-Anthea had taken over Sherlock's desk, between the two windows, and bounced back and forth between her files, her Blackberry, and more printouts. Mrs. Hudson was at the far end of the sofa with John, peering through reading glasses at still more photos, clearly not finding much, but just as clearly reveling in having "her boys" both back, and with company into the bargain: as far as she was concerned this was a party, and one she was delighted to attend.

Lestrade, still lying belly-down on the floor, had exerted some kind of charismatic gravity: Molly had found a place to sit near him, perched on the hearth, and she'd tucked her toes under his side. Every so often he reached back and traced the line of her ankle, before returning to his own perusal of the printed material. One corner of Molly's mouth turned up each time Lestrade did it, though she kept her eyes on her own work.

Sherlock frowned and blasted away an entire block of emails he'd barely even checked the subject lines on. Really, that was considerably more touchy-feely than he expected to see in  _his_ living room between  _his_  friends. Didn't they know better? He blitzed another block of junk.

"Sherlock, dear? Could you come look at this?" Mrs Hudson was studying one of her printouts intently, moving her reading glasses up and down her nose as she tried to find the perfect resolution. "I'm not sure, but... Oh, dear. It's so hard to tell. But noses don't change much, do they? Well, not like coloring your hair or stuffing your parka up your shirt to look fatter, I mean."

Sherlock practically launched himself out of the armchair, not even bothering to put down the laptop. He slipped down to kneel beside Mrs. Hudson. "No. Noses do not change. What have you got?"

She tipped the picture toward him. "It's one of that nice young woman's pictures of the restaurant, lovie. The workmen. See? There? That one fellow in the uniform with the carton? Look at his profile, dear..."

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson, you are a gem, a jewel, a queen among housekeepers—"

"I'm not your housekeeper, Sherlock—"

"An empress among landladies. Everyone, come see!" He pointed to the photo as they all gathered around.

A bulky, heavy-looking man dressed in a one-piece workman's coverall was walking away from the Barbican, a long carton under his arm of the type often used for fluorescent lights. He was angled such that the CCTV camera would not normally have caught his face—but another worker was gesturing and calling to the man, and he'd turned his head just a few degrees to respond.

"Nigel," breathed Molly.

"Nigel and the umbrella," Sherlock confirmed, grinning like the Cheshire cat. "He hid it on the premises, and then came back for it later, when he had a disguise and a hope no one was watching."

Not-Anthea hummed approvingly. "Oh, he's slick."

Lestrade agree. "Yeah. If you don't want him, I could find a spot for that much clever on the hoof."

"Yes," John said, "but we still don't know how to find him."

"He'll find a way to tell us," Sherlock said, confidently. "He's sharp. Very, very sharp."

Just then the laptop chimed, announcing a new load of incoming email. Sherlock glanced—and smiled.

From: FHerbert

To: SHolmes  
Sent: Fri, Nov 8, 2013 9:37pm  
Subject: Ashwaghandha Herb: Think Like the Mentat Mystics!

Chuckling, Sherlock said, "Unless I've missed my guess, that's the message now." He clicked it open.

The body of the email said only one thing: HPPS:6

"Well that's not much help," John grumbled.

"On the contrary, John. It's quite explicit..."

John's look was baleful. "Oh, really? And?"

Sherlock grinned. "We can rendezvous with him at King's Cross station at 11:00—presumably tomorrow, as it's a bit of a wait for September 1st to come around again."

John looked at him with resignation. "And you know this how?"

Sherlock was beaming with delight by then. "Because, my dear friend—Nigel knows my fandoms."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to a rather fiddly issue of expiring trademarks and non-expiring trademarks and market competition, Duracell gets the pink hyperactive bunny in the UK and Energizer gets the pink hyperactive bunny in the US. Look it up if you like. The important thing, though, is to think large, pink, and unstoppable.
> 
> For those who want to know how Nigel communicated with Sherlock, I'll try to be good and give the answer at the bottom of the next instalment...but I'm going to let those of you who like solving puzzles play with it for now. It's not that hard with the hint Sherlock has provided.


	21. Education Never Ends

Molly's life was on fire. That was the clearest she could put it to herself: her life was being taken over by one of those fast-moving conflagrations that start as a hot ember in the cellar at five and end up with an inferno dancing on the rooftree by half-six. The kind where no one gets out alive and the fire-fighters give helpless quotes about not keeping fireworks, old paint, petrol cans, and incendiary devices in your spare closet.

Greg had taken her to her flat the previous night, after they'd all worked out a plan to deal with Nigel—a consolation for having had their intended date steamrollered by the search for Nigel. He had very nearly stayed straight through. She was pretty sure only her own screaming nerves had stopped it happening—and her nerves had nearly lain down and surrendered, too. The hours preceding Greg giving her a final good-night kiss and toddling on back to his own place had been a revelation of sorts. Her previously chaste IKEA sofa, at least, was considerably better educated in just what two occupants could get up to than it had been the night previous.

After a lifetime of resounding romantic and erotic no-shows, Greg was the real thing, and to Molly's surprise, that was terrifying. She had thought being humiliated by Sherlock was the scariest thing she could imagine, but in retrospect it had been quite easy, demanding nothing of her but passive endurance or, occasionally, anguished protest. When Sherlock ripped into you it wasn't like you had to do anything about it, or respond, or even take any of his blather all that seriously.

Every instant with Greg seemed to open up a new negotiation, and for the first time she really understood how little she knew or had experienced. She had not, for example, really known that making out...making love...could be a long string of largely silent questions and silent answers.

If my hand is here, may it move there? If I do this, what do you respond with? I like that—why don't you see what else I like?

She'd even learned that "This is the condom I have brought along in my wallet. Are you interested in me using it?" could be a wordless, graceful, reassuring ritual, rather than a fumbling, blushing disaster between two mutually inarticulate gawks. Greg was good enough at the entire negotiation process that she had truly felt she was free to say "no," with no fearful repercussions.

Instead she'd said "yes," and for the first time ever she was left with an entirely new question. She wasn't thinking "Please, God, how do I forget this night?" or "Well, that wasn't very interesting—is that what all the fuss is about?" or "Please, Lord, may I never see him again, ever, and can I have some brain bleach?" Instead she was thinking, "Oh, Lord—I'm not playing the same sport, much less in the same league he's in. Do I want to let him teach me, though?"

It would be lovely if she did. She was sure of it. He'd made her look better than she was, and she was pretty sure she'd levelled up in just one evening as a result. But—

Maybe it was just that she wasn't a kid any more, but it was a bit unnerving being so much younger, and so much in the student role. Yes, all right, she had earned her ignorance fair and square, and it wasn't right to blame Greg for simply being a bloody good lover. But the same stubborn shift that was pushing her into med school, and into challenging Sherlock, and into taking care of herself was suggesting that maybe she'd be better off with someone closer to her skill level, but who wanted to level up a few ranks himself. She felt a bit twitchy at the thought of being sweet Molly Hooper, learning from her older, more experienced lover. It felt just a bit Victorian. Old Normal Molly would have liked it, she thought. New Normal Molly wasn't quite sure.

She was, however, sure she was grateful he'd gone home, in the end, rather than staying over. It gave her time on waking to clear her head and chase away some of the more disruptive thoughts before she got dressed to take up her position for the planned eleven o'clock Nigel-retrieval. She showered, sucked down a fast cup of coffee, ate a container of strawberry yogurt, and dressed in her weekend clothes: jeans, a jumper with printed goldfinches on the front, trainers, and an old paddock jacket that dated back to her first years in college. After consideration she plaited her hair tightly, tying it off with a green elastic. In spite of Greg, Not-Anthea, John, and Sherlock's assurances, she suspected recovering Nigel might prove active.

She had mixed feelings about that. She'd loved being "the one who counted" for Sherlock—but she wasn't naturally all that inclined to battle, and she'd honestly hated being shot at. But looking at the men in her life, what role was there for her if she couldn't match their BAMF! with some of her own? Sherlock, Greg, John—even Nigel was turning out to have the adventure bug...dammit. She didn't want to be stuck in the morgue, forgotten until someone wanted to use the lab or learn about a toxin.

But it scared her. It really scared her. She did post mortems. She knew what people died of, and she knew she didn't have the size, speed, or skills for the games Sherlock and his friends played. She didn't. She just wasn't a fighter. She wasn't. And if it weren't the only game in town she wouldn't want to be, either.

She took a taxi to King's Cross station, and took up her position in Waterman Books, just down the way from the Harry Potter commemorative platform. She leaned against a table and appeared to browse her way through the assembled books.

She hadn't seen any of her associates...and her associates, at the moment, meant almost everyone who'd been at Baker Street the night before, and a large assembly more. Not-Anthea was providing people, as were those of Sherlock's street-person network...or those remaining after so many years since the fall. Mrs. Hudson alone was not part of the rescue party, and she was back at Baker Street with two armed guards supplied by Not-Anthea, as Sherlock was not about to risk her being attacked while he and his team were otherwise occupied.

Sherlock had been so gleeful that all this was coming to a head on a Saturday. She did understand, at least a bit: for the first time since his return, his entire little fief of friends was available to orbit around him as he played Great Detective in the old, grand style he'd always enjoyed so much. She and John and Greg were all free from work, Not-Anthea was putting herself and some unknown set of her associates at his disposal, the street people were here. Sherlock could be the ring leader—Peter Pan, crowing "Oh, the cleverness of me!" and leading them all out to defeat unknown evil and retrieve their Lost Boy. He'd been vibrating with contained excitement last night, energy seeming to leap off his very skin, like St. Elmo's fire.

He'd lost it all, given up everything, "died," risen again only to find still more loss and pain—everything he'd thought he was saving all set at odds and suffering some profound sea-change. Now though, he was back, and for at least one glorious Saturday Sherlock Holmes was King.

Not that she could find him anywhere in sight. She'd peered about the new concourse coming into King's Cross, but while the brilliant, light-filled gallery had been bustling, she couldn't  _find_  anyone. She couldn't even now, loitering in place, serving as a signpost to Nigel if he were able to spot her—which she was about to make very sure he could.

She cut back to the children's section of the store and purchased a new copy of  _Peter Pan_. She tucked the receipt into the book, put the book, clutched the book to her chest, where it glowed against the dark navy-blue of her jacket, and she proceeded out to the main area, glancing to her right, toward the permanently marked out "Platform 9 ¾", with its defining arch and the luggage trolley embedded in the wall.

For a moment her heart dropped, as no one seemed to be there. Then, down the way, she spotted him, moving in a slow, easy glide. Not that she'd have known it was Nigel, if she hadn't already been prepared for his mind-boggling chameleon changes by both her knowledge of his cosplay and by the review of his improvisations the night before.

Today he'd once more shifted his hair, having added what had to be a brown wig of a singularly drab style. His glasses were missing, as they had been for much of the adventure, judging by the photos, but he was navigating well. His clothing shouted that he was a low level labourer at a Tescos: slightly worn navy blue pants and top shirt, red t-shirt under the topper, battered trainers. She could see no sign of the umbrella, but at this point she didn't find that surprising. Nigel had proven to be a sly red fox, and had no doubt come up with a way to either hide or deliver the umbrella separately, increasing the odds of at least one of them making it through.

Molly was careful not to catch his eye, but she did drift more conspicuously toward the 9¾ platform. While everyone else was hidden, she was Nigel's signpost—the indication he'd been heard, that his message had gotten through.

The group had argued about it fiercely the night before. John and Greg had been adamant that Molly not be put at risk, pointing out she was a civilian, and already put in harm's way before, during the shooting. Not-Anthea and Sherlock, though, felt that her status as Nigel's co-worker made her the best choice to rendezvous with their little dodger: her presence did not immediately imply Nigel had contacted anyone within the undercover community circling around Mycroft. He could have, and would have contacted Molly because she was an old friend. They hoped that by making Molly the overt contact, they might avoid giving away the depth of Nigel's current support.

Nigel was approaching fast. Molly now risked catching his eye, and stepped forward, looking intentionally confused.

"Excuse me," she said, "Can you help me?"

Nigel's eyes laughed. In a blindingly false Scots accent he said, "Oh, och, aye, glad to help a wee lass like ye!"

She could barely resist his laughter. She glared, and fell in beside him. "Oh, thank you. I'm new in town, and was wondering how to get to St. Pancras to make a connection. I'm all turned about, I'm afraid."

"'Tisn't so hard," Nigel said. "Right close by. I can show you."

She smiled, and the two cut toward the concourse. Out of the corner of her eye Molly could see motion approaching, but without turning she wasn't sure who. The station was busy—at peak hour on the weekend, and the place seemed to awhirl with people. Where they being followed? Tailed by someone other than Sherlock's team? She knew that was what Sherlock and Not-Anthea were hoping—that there would be someone they could follow, capture, or question: anyone who could provide more information than they'd been able to collect so far. That was why they were taking any risks at all in picking Nigel up in the first place.

Molly wasn't sure she approved. She and Mrs. Hudson had been all in favour of bringing out the cavalry and walking Nigel to safety accompanied by the biggest, baddest, most remarkable bodyguard ever collected to cover the scrawny butt of a renegade fanboy. They'd been overruled. Apparently the state of the free world rested on letting Not-Anthea and Sherlock play Secret Agent Man...at least, according to them.

She was supposed to put her faith in a woman who looked and acted like Emma Peel—or, worse, like River Song—and a man willing to throw himself off tall buildings to trick assassins? Just how had she gotten herself into all this, anyway?

Now that she was with Nigel, she risked flashing the cover of the book at him. "Backup rendezvous if we get separated," she murmured.

He glanced, and looked away again. "Statue?"

"Yeah."

He nodded, and angled them toward the main entrance of the concourse. "Now, lass, St. Pancras is just out this way and a block over. I'll show ye." He opened up his stride, targeting the rotating doors out onto the street.

Molly was sure they were being approached, now. Two people had sorted themselves out of a mob moving toward the platforms, heading back toward the exit. Two more seemed to be approaching from the left, darting toward them. "Incoming," she murmured. "Outside—we want to avoid trouble inside the station."

Nigel was grinning like a loony, eyes wild, caught up between fear and glee. Molly wasn't having half so much fun. A terrified side glance assured her that the people racing toward her on her side weren't friends: they didn't have a warm, fuzzy look at all. She pushed harder, just short of a run, determined to make the sliding plate glass doors before they were attacked.

What happened next was never completely clear to Molly. The people on her side seemed to pick up speed, just as someone cruised behind Nigel, grabbing his arm and spinning him outward, away from her. Nigel dropped, rolled, and used his own motion to wrench free, then kicked toward the sliding doors, fast as a sprinter kicking off from his starting position. Molly's attackers veered, accidentally side-swiping her as they reoriented on Nigel.

Somewhere someone was screaming. It might have been her, but she didn't think so—she was too busy falling. Just as it looked inevitable that she'd smack down on polished decorative flooring, someone caught her elbow. This time she did scream, twisting to get away, only to hear Sherlock snarl, "Get up, moron..." and jerk her upright before racing away after Nigel.

Forms she only belatedly recognized were Greg and John poured past her, following Sherlock. Nigel managed to slip through a door as it slid open, then veered sharply left, heading for St. Pancras Station, just across St. Pancras Road. Behind him came the unknown attackers, dodging in and out between travellers. The doors slipped shut just as they came near—but the attackers were apparently desperate enough to ignore "low key" and go straight to "over the top." There was the sound of a shot, and plate glass fell in a cascade. The attackers leapt through the gaping hole, pounding fast after their prey.

Sherlock was a lean deerhound in pursuit, his coat billowing with the wind of his passage. (And just how had that rat managed to stay invisible with that coat, right up till he chose to be noticed, anyway?) Greg and John ran behind, a sturdy fox hound and a determined little beagle unwilling to fall back from the chase.

Molly was torn. Part of her wanted to just stop, find a bench, and pant and cry until her friends came back for her. The rest, though, burned to keep on, to keep up, to hold fast. Damn it, New Normal Molly wanted to run with the pack. She rushed along behind, cramming  _Peter Pan_  into her jacket pocket and trying to treat it all like a long run on the running machine in the gym.

As she hit the street another shot was fired. She had no idea who shot, or why, or whether it mattered. It terrified her. She was Molly Hooper, not Emma Peel. She'd never wanted to be Emma Peel—or not more than middling-so. Even her dreams of becoming one of the Doctor's companions had been based on a fantasy in which she was allowed a sub-section in the contract that specified "not so much running."

Ahead, just reaching the entry plaza to St. Pancras, someone managed to tackle Nigel—which would have been bad except them Sherlock managed to tackle the tackler. Which might have been a great advantage except as she approached Molly could see the metallic flash of a gun barrel. Sherlock's hands were locked around the attacker's wrist, trying to force the gun away.

Strangers screamed and ran. Guards shouted, racing in toward the conflict. Greg reached the fight and clutched Nigel's uniform top, ripping him away from the melee. John dived low, catching Sherlock around the waist and doing something complicated that set the entire conflict spinning. Out of the corner of her eye Molly saw a solid female figure in aqua take a stance, brace, and fire. An attacker just reaching Sherlock's pile-up fell. Before he'd hit concrete the shooter was in motion again, and Molly screamed warning, not sure if it was one of her team, or one of Team Bad Guy.

Things seemed to be sorting themselves. John had pulled Sherlock out of the fight. Greg had Nigel and was standing guard over him defensively, a grown dog with a pup in his charge. Aqua turned out to be one of Not-Anthea's team, apparently—or at least, Sherlock, Greg. and John all seemed to think the right person was pointing the weapon at the right targets, which was good enough for Molly. She looked over the four men, feeling shivery. She'd never gotten to see any of them in battle mode before—well, unless you counted Sherlock preparing for the Fall, and managing the aftermath. It wasn't the same thing, though, was it? Not this thing of speed and sinew and sudden death decisions? They were fighters, when they had to be—and on some level they loved it. It was a thing for them: running through London, the hunt racing together, covering the ground, tracking the prey.

She, however, wasn't. The hunt wasn't hers.

She ducked her head, and sighed, gathering herself to join them.

An arm slipped around her neck, jerking her backward. She screamed—screamed again, thrashing, dropping her weight, pulling loose.

Until she felt the gun at her temple.

Until she felt the hand cup around her chin, ready to jerk her neck around.

Until she saw Greg and Sherlock and John and Aqua spin, looking at her, suddenly alert. Nigel, behind them, went pale.

She crouched where she was, squatting half-way to the floor, her captor's hand at her chin, a gun at her head.

"Get up," her captor growled.

She tried to think like Sherlock—notice details, solve puzzles, find a way to escape. Or at least make her capture worth something. All she came up with was "male," and "gun," and "please, don't let me pee myself." Stupid to think of that, but she didn't want her last act to be losing bladder control out of terror in front of the people she loved best in all the world. She forced herself to rise from her awkward squat, thighs and calves protesting the lack of leverage and her poor balance. It wasn't the best time to ask for a bit of help up, though, was it?

Her hunting pack was slowly, unnervingly shifting, realigning their positions, even Nigel somehow sensing the flow as they prepared to attack.

"Don't do it," her captor growled. "Where's the information?"

"Don't know what you're talking about," Greg said, stepping to the forefront. His voice was steady and reasonable, almost relaxed...a negotiator's voice. "We're just here to pick up our friend. He got caught in a situation the other night and panicked. We're bringing him in. That's all."

Her captor swore. "No. The information: we know you've got it. We know you found it. Where? Where is it?"

Greg continued to talk, hands partially raised, empty—a man proving he's unarmed and not dangerous. As he moved forward he drifted slightly off the centre line of view, drawing her captor's attention from the remainder of the pack. John, Sherlock, and Nigel all dropped back and counter to Greg's sideways drift, countered by Aqua moving forward, her bright clothing and assertive movements begging for notice.

She could feel her captor's head jerk as he tried to follow the slow, subtle shifts. "Stay where you are! Stay still!" His arm tightened around her throat, and his fingers dug into her shoulder as he clutched her tight. "I'll kill her. I will..."

"Who the hell sent you?" Aqua said, her voice biting sharp, her attitude pure disgust. "Good lord, man, it's lost already. You're wasting our time. Even if we did have your information, we'd hardly give it to you now." She flicked glances sidewise, examining the wide plaza, the streets, the sidewalk. "It's done. Nothing left to win. All you can do is go out hard or go out easy."

Greg continued his slow approach, voice soft, level—even sympathetic. "Don't blame him," he responded to Aqua's comments. "It's not his fault his people left him hanging in the wind. My guess is he's just a hired gun—no more."

"I'm not," her captor shouted, angry and shaking. God, she wished he weren't shaking—not with a gun at her temple. "They trust me."

Greg shrugged, apologetically. "Maybe...but they're not here, now, are they?"

John had disappeared. She didn't know how, but the little man was gone, vanished as though he'd put on Harry Potter's invisibility cloak. Molly licked her lips and studied the pack as it was now arrayed.

Greg was at point, playing Good Cop, Reasonable Cop, Negotiating Cop—and holding her captor's primary attention. Aqua had apparently volunteered herself as his side-gunner—Bad Cop, Testy Cop, Armed Cop looking for an excuse to shoot someone. She was playing at the edge of Molly and her captor's visual range, almost in peripheral vision, hard to predict, but using her bright clothing and assertive motion to force the man to balance his attention between a central threat and a secondary one.

Nigel had walked quietly over to a security guard, and stationed close and in sight. Molly thought he'd decided the most constructive thing he could do was remove himself from play.

John, again, was missing from view...which meant only that she had no idea what he was up to: calling Mycroft's people? Bringing in a swat team? Lining up a shot?

Not-Anthea, too, was out of sight, as were any more of her teammates.

Sherlock, though, was almost perfectly placed, halfway between Greg and Aqua. His face was white stone, eyes blue fire. The wind coming up St. Pancras road fluttered his scarf and whipped at the skirt of his coat. He was in a fury. Molly knew him in a fury—too often he'd roused himself to rage over a case only to turn his anger on her if she misspoke, or derailed a chain of thought. She knew Sherlock furious—and had never seen him quite so enraged. His arms rose, slightly, his hands arching away from his body so that he looked like a gunfighter in an old American Western movie, preparing for a showdown in the main street of some little pioneer town. One hand fluttered. His fingers gestured.

At the far side of the crowd, someone began to mutter.

"No, no, no, not, not gonna, no, not gonna happen, no, no, no. I can't, not gonna..."

The voice was loose and uncertain—confused. Molly tried to see what was happening, but couldn't. Her captor tried to see, too: she could feel his chin press into her head as he tried to maintain view of all the active elements of the situation.

"No, no, not gonna happen, not that again, I can't, can't, I don't want to..." The new voice murmured and muttered, half-mad, stressed, mournful. "Don't want it. Don't. No, no, no..."

Her captor was shaking. Afraid. As afraid as she was? Maybe more afraid?

What would happen if she could change the balance of power for just a moment? Could she risk anything?

From her right the moaning man came into sight, shuffling from the edges of the crowd. One of the homeless, and dressed like it, too. Clothes dirty to the point of being greasy and caked with soot and smudge and filth. Nails black and ragged. Hair a nest for pests and pestilence. He gestured imploringly, hands going out to Molly and her captor. "No, no, no? Not gonna happen?" It wasn't just a statement any more, but a plea. "Not gonna happen?"

Aqua drifted further left, no longer really in sight. Greg moved forward again.

Molly licked her lips. They were doing something; planning something; putting something together on the wing. She had no idea what, and no idea what choices she could make to help—or that might hinder. But...

Wouldn't it be better if, for even a moment, she wasn't in centre-stage with a gun at her temple? Even one second when they didn't have to factor her physical presence into everything?

Without warning she dropped, letting her entire weight carry her down, snapping herself instantly out of her captor's hold. She shoved backward, thighs and back pounding against her captor's shins and knees. As he toppled, she rolled right, then struggled to rise—only to have John hurtle in from somewhere behind her, covering her with his body.

Above there was a multiplicity of gunshot...and then silence.

She felt John crane his neck, check out the plaza. "It's all right, now," he said, rising. He reached down to help her up. "Not bad, Molly. That last move was good."

"No. It. Was. Not." Sherlock's voice was a bronze trumpet-call, cutting through the slowly rising murmur as the crowd came alive again and police and guards rushed in to hunch over the dead criminal's corpse. "It was a bit not good. A lot not good. It was bad." He paced toward Molly, burning with anger. Greg turned to try to slow him, only to get shoved aside as Sherlock bore down on Molly and John. "You should not have even been there, you stupid, stupid girl. You shouldn't have been part of this. When the hunt started, any role you had was over. You put us all in danger, playing with fire."

Greg crossed his arms over his chest and glowered at Sherlock's back. "Pot—kettle. Kettle—pot. You're not the one to talk, Sherlock."

Sherlock whirled a half turn, skirts of his coat flying with the speed of the swirl. " _I_ get it right," he snarled.

"Except when you bugger it up right and proper," Greg rasped back. Molly might know Sherlock's anger well. She'd never seen Greg's, though: he'd always struck her as a remarkably gentle man, slow to anger, quick to forgive. He was angry now, though.

"She could have gotten everyone killed."

"Do you have any damned idea how often you've put me and my people on the line for you, you stupid tosser? And not just when we've asked you to play in our playground? You asked Molly, you moron. John and I said it was a bad idea. We told you it was putting a civilian at risk—but did you listen to us?"

"Fat bloody chance," John drawled, seeming to hover somewhere between real annoyance and amusement.

"She should never have tried to keep up," Sherlock snapped, suddenly aware his own allies were turning on him. "She put us all in danger—and this entire project on the line."

"Oh, bugger it," John grumbled. "All she did was try to keep up. Give her a break. It wasn't her fault. She was smart and kept her head. What more do you want?"

Before Sherlock could answer, Molly snapped, "Want? Want? What does he want? Make-believe playmates who run after him and tell him how clever he is and go where he tells them and guess what he wants and put up with his insults when they get it wrong."

Oh. She hadn't known Greg could get so angry? Greg's anger was nothing to her own—and not nearly as surprising. Her rage had boiled up so high it felt like she was going to explode. She looked around the plaza, then back at Sherlock.

She gestured wide, taking in the entire space. "This is not bloody Never-Never Land." She pointed at John, then at Greg and Nigel. "They are not the Lost Boys." She pointed at Aqua. "She's not Tiger Lily." She jabbed her finger at her dead captor. "He was not Captain Hook. And me? I'm not Wendy—I am bloody not ever going to be bloody damned Wendy Darling. But you?" She paced toward him. "You are bloody, bloody, bloody Peter-Bloody-Pan...and you will never grow up, you will never stop building forts so you can play with the boys, you will never stop playing pirate king, you will never stop blaming anyone who mucks around with your games. And I have had it up to here!" She gestured with her hand to just under her chin, then jerked the copy of Peter Pan out of her pocket. "Here. Take it—go play in Kensington Gardens with Tinker Bell. I'm done." When he didn't take it, she hurled it at him.

He ignored it when it bounced off the double-breasted front of his coat and dropped to the concrete paving. "Oh, you found a new playmate, then, and think it's all over?" He was so angry he was quite literally showing fang—flashes of eye teeth, baring of incisors. "Is that all it took, by the way? Someone to finally court you, so you could let go of that stranglehold on me? At least I'm not playing at cops and robbers just to impress the boys. Was it really that simple? Are you really that obvious? No wonder Moriarty was able to play you so easily: a hint of admiration, a gentle bit of flirtation, a hand touching your wrist..."

Before she knew what she was thinking, she was swinging on him, hand open to slap. He caught her wrist in mid-swing, and they stood, frozen, both so far past the snapping point that it was an open question what, short of beating each other to death, was left.

The silence grew, stretched, seemed to develop a loathsome life of its own. In the end she could never say which of them ended it first—whether he dropped her wrist or she snatched it away, whether he spun and paced toward the corpse or she turned to John.

"God," she said under her breath as the tension dropped back from nuclear levels. "Oh, my God."

John was wearing his worried-beagle face. He stepped up cautiously, and just as cautiously offered her a hug with a small opening of his arms. Relieved, she leaned into him, burying her face against his woolly jumper.

"I can't believe I said that."

"You'd been scared. It does things to you," he said, soothingly.

"I can't believe  _he_ said that. I mean, he's Sherlock, but..." she shivered.

She felt his shoulders shrug under her palms. "He'd been scared, too. You could have died. He was scared."

"Scared his stupid game would blow up in his face."

"You know that's not true."

"Not scared for me," she amended.

"That's not true, either."

She leaned back and met his eyes. "You're sure of that?" she asked, dryly.

After a moment he looked away, and said with a tiny scoff. "He's Sherlock. Who can ever be sure with Sherlock?" He turned back and smoothed tendrils of hair away from her face, where they'd escaped. "Are you staying with us? To see how it all comes out? I know it's rough after blowing up at him—after him blowing up at you. But—I've always ended up glad to have stayed for the whole ride."

She nodded, fighting back a sniffle. "Mmm. I guess." After a moment, she asked, softly, "Was it really my fault?"

John frowned, and put an arm over her shoulder, leading her toward Greg and Nigel, who were standing together beaming identical glowers toward Sherlock, who was in the midst of some energetic discussion with the members of a specia forces team from the Met.

"No one person to blame," he said, after consideration. "Greg and I were right—you shouldn't have been in the centre of this anyway. But you shouldn't have tried to keep up with us. Me, Greg, even Sherlock—we're trained, one way or another. You don't have to pretend you're a fighter, Molly."

She snorted. "You didn't see yourselves—didn't see Sherlock. It's what you all live for, and anyone who can't keep up has no real place in your world."

"That particular part of our world? No. You're right. But that's not all our world...if it were, Mary wouldn't have a place, either."

She slipped him a sidewise glance. "Mmmm. And if you had to choose between the safe bit of the world she's in and running fast through danger to keep up with Sherlock while the bullets fly?" He blushed, and didn't answer. "Thought so," she said, softly.

"It's not that simple."

She shrugged.

John studied the special forces team with Sherlock. As he approached Greg, he said, "SO9?"

Greg nodded. "Yeah. Flying Squad."

"Not-Anthea's people dealing with it?"

"She's talking to their captain. I think the rest have scarpered."

John eased into place, putting Molly between him and Greg. Greg's arm slipped around her, leaving her with two strong men quietly providing comfort and protection while pointedly pretending they were doing nothing of the sort.

It was, she thought, both lovely and adorably cute.

She nearly leaped out of her skin, though, when arms slipped around her shoulders and neck. She squealed and spun, only to find Nigel scrambling frantically away from her.

"You idiot," she grumbled, laughing. "You scared me. I thought it was another nutter."

He grinned apologetically. "It is. Sorry. Didn't mean to toss you a trigger."

She grimaced, but nodded, slipping back into her spot between Greg and John. She twisted her head, saying, "Eh. I figure you're not entirely deadly. But—hey! You did great—you know that, don't you?"

He moved back, and again slipped his arms around her shoulders, resting his pointy chin on the crown of her head. "Yeah. I kind of did, didn't I?"

"Not bad for a rookie," Greg said, never turning to look at Nigel. "But where's the umbrella?"

"Spent the night with my gamer mate, Flynn. We boxed it in an old guitar case, crated the case. He drove his van over to the post and sent the box to Sherlock's place. Don't think we were even spotted. If it's not there by Monday, blame the Royal Mail."

"Shite, you're a sneaky bugger," Greg said admiringly. "Mind like that could think rings around a pretzel."

"What next?" asked Nigel.

"We're going to stow you in the basement apartment of 221B," John said. "Do a debrief this afternoon. Dinner. After that I don't know what. Sleep, maybe. Sleep sounds good."

It wasn't sleep, though. It was a party. Over the afternoon more and more people arrived at 221B. Not-Anthea's people arrived; Donovan and Anderson from Greg's investigative team heard word he'd been in the shooting at St. Pancras and popped over to scold him for getting himself embroiled in one of Sherlock's crazy cases again. A few of the SO9 team came by, having dealt with Greg before and hoping to get the unofficial word on what had really been happening. Nigel, spinning with energy, rattled from John's old attic room to his own temporary basement quarters, in love with his own success. Mrs. Hudson practically exploded with glee—her boys were home, they'd succeeded at dealing with a difficult problem, and now? Now there was a real party—a miracle. She sent people running to fetch supplies, buy beers, she ordered pizzas, she pulled out her CD player and all her music—music dating back decades, lovingly maintained and moved to new media or repurchased.

That alone drew a little crowd. Mrs. Hudson was exactly the age to have a box full of classics—oldies but goodies or artists who'd weathered time and proven themselves over a life-time. Most of it could be sung. Whether it could be sung well was another question, and not one people always answered well with four or five pints installed.

"Oh, God," Sherlock snarled, pacing down the stairs to collect a new beer from Mrs. Hudson's kitchen. "They've reached the point of 'Bridge Over Troubled Water.' Why don't they just go out to a karaoke bar and spare us the agony?"

"Oh, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson scolded, cheerfully. "That just means it's a good party! It would be another thing if they were singing 'McArthur Park.'"

"Someone left the cake out in the rain, all the sweet green icing melting down," Greg sang softly behind her, grinning.

She jumped, turned, laughed, and smacked his chest playfully. "Oh, Greg! I didn't think anyone would get that. It's an old lady's song, these days."

"Leonard Cohen? Bite your tongue," Greg said, laughing right back.

Nigel popped his head up. "Cohen? You have Cohen?"

Sherlock growled—not under his breath, either. "Don't encourage her." He stalked away, heading for the fridge.

"He's in a pet, isn't he?" Mrs Hudson said, following his progress through the crowd with worried eyes. "I thought he'd be full of it tonight! He won!"

"He's mad at me," Molly said, grimly, settling herself on a stair halfway up the stairway to 221B. She took a pull on her beer, and shrugged. "'Sokay. I'm mad at him, too."

Greg leaned over and dropped a kiss on her head. "Don't let him get to you. You came through great, and that last drop was perfect timing."

"Who shot him?" Molly asked, thinking back. "Was that Aqua? It wasn't John—he was tackling me. And it wasn't you—you were front and centre playing hostage negotiation."

"If by 'Aqua' you mean the young woman from Mycroft's division, it wasn't her, either," Sherlock said. He refused to meet her eyes as he squeezed past her heading for his own living room. "She was carrying a Glock and shooting from in front. He was taken down with a Browning service revolver."

Greg made a small, wary noise, frowning. "Um..."

"No," Sherlock said, dryly. "As indicated,  _that_  agent was out of play at the moment. You may continue not knowing about the handgun you don't know about. No—someone else entirely was involved. My hypothesis is that whoever attempted to retrieve Nigel and any information chose to remove all potential leaks when it became evident the situation had deteriorated beyond recovery."

"In other words it wasn't one of us who shot him?" Greg said, slipping his hand into Molly's over the stair banister.

"I believe that's what I said, Detective Inspector," Sherlock grumbled, and continued on his way up the stair, stomping a bit more than seemed entirely necessary.

The party purred quietly on. Molly drowsed on her perch on the stairway, leaning against the spindles. When she was awake she peered between, watching the strange, entirely un-common mob move through the house. At one point she overheard a conversation between Nigel, Mrs. Hudson, and Greg, discussing Leonard Cohen.

"That's the one that got me through the divorce," Greg said, softly, as a pure, sweet woman's voice poured like golden syrup into the hallway. He joined his voice to hers toward the end, his baritone steady, if not professional.

.

As someone long prepared for this to happen.  
Go firmly to the window; drink it in.  
Exquisite music, Alexandra laughing;  
Your first commitments tangible again.

Mrs. Hudson's creaky but true alto joined the song, wistful and patient.

And you, who had the honour of her evening,  
And by that honour had your own restored—  
Say goodbye to Alexandra leaving;  
Alexandra, leaving with her lord.

.

It was a patient, courageous song, Molly thought, nursing another beer. But it wasn't a young man's song. It wasn't a song for first mistakes or even third mistakes. It reminded her too strongly that Greg was older than she was...that he'd already lived a life she'd barely gotten around to hoping for.

She dozed again. When she woke next people were singing, but it had devolved during her nap, and someone—not Greg, thank God—was caterwauling "I can't liiiive, if livin' is without yoooooou, I can't give, I can't give anymore!"

She hurled herself back into sleep, hoping the storm of sentiment passed soon or Sherlock would surely perish of insulin overload.

It was late when she woke up next. The party, it seemed, had finally ended...or at least converted to the state of weary, tipsy partiers crashed out on chairs. The hall was lit by a faint flickering light from Mrs. Hudson's living room fireplace. She stood and stretched, trying to decide where she was going to sleep. Going home didn't seem an option—but if she kept falling asleep on the stairwell she was going to end up with the worst backache. Maybe Mrs. Hudson's tub was unoccupied?

She heard footsteps pacing toward her from Mrs. Hudson's kitchen. A glance was enough to identify Sherlock's silhouette. Molly shifted, preparing to let him past.

"You're awake," he said, standing at the foot of the stairway, holding a chocolate digestive, looking up at her. His face was cool and unreadable.

"Mmmm," she agreed, muzzily.

"Mmm. Yes." He stepped up one step, and was about to step up another, when he stopped.

She looked down at him, bemused to see the crown of his head, the tousled mop of curls. She was almost a foot shorter than he was—she never saw the top of his head, even when he was sitting in the lab. "Am I in the way?"

He glanced up, then. In the dark of the hall there was no colour to his eyes, only the dark shadows of their sculpting and the fringe of lashes. "No." He took a breath, and said, with great control, "I am afraid I owe you an apology. Again. John's rather gone the limit pointing out that your decision to drop and roll was critical in the resolution of the crisis."

She shrugged. "I owe you an apology, too. You're right. There was nothing I could have added to the situation once those people attacked. I should have stayed where I was, or gone for guards. Racing after you was just stupid."

"Not racing after us would have left you alone and unprotected—still a likely target for attack."

"Mmm." She shrugged. "No good answers, then."

He nodded, a little, jerky motion. "I'm still sorry. I...lost my temper."

"I did, too."

"I baited you. I do that. I'm sorry. I wish you luck with Lestrade. He's a good man."

"A bit early for sending me congratulations letters," Molly said, softly. "We're not a couple. We're...I don't know."

"More than nothing, though."

She didn't waste time trying to deny it. He was Sherlock. She wasn't sure he couldn't tell her personal details of her past days even she didn't know—or at least, didn't understand fully.

"He's a good man, Molly Hooper. He's worthy of you." He climbed another stair, then leaned in and kissed her lightly, high on the cheek, his face at a level with her own. "Good luck, Molly Hooper." Then, suddenly, clumsily, he leaned in again, and kissed her mouth—then shot back in panic. "I'm sorry. I..."

She looked at him, and sighed. It was too late, and she was too tired, and really, if there was one thing Greg seemed to have right, it was that all the histrionics weren't worth it. She said, "Sherlock, shut up and stand still."

"What?"

"Just shut up and stand still. I mean it." She slipped one hand out, allowed it to curl around his shoulder and around the back of his neck. She pulled him close, and kissed him, taking her time, letting her tongue slide along his lips, then in when he gasped.

It was a good kiss. When it was done, she leaned back. "Good night, Sherlock. Sleep well."

"I..." His eyes were huge, the white showing wildly.

"No. Don't. Just don't even try," she said, wanting to laugh. "Just think about it. Now, I'm going to see if Mrs. Hudson's tub is available."

"It's not, but there's a spare chaise down with Nigel," he said, still staring.

"Good," she said, and walked down the stairs past him.

It had been one heck of a day.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +The song referenced in the post-rescue party is *Alexandra Leaving*, by Leonard Cohen and Sharon Robinson, sung by Sharon Robinson. It's amazing, beautiful, heart-stoppingly sad, and you should go look it up on YouTube or similar. Look up the lyrics, while you're at it. For a whole lot of reasons I picked it as Greg's "survive the divorce" song, and invoked it in this chapter...not least of all to focus on the fact that he's survived the loss of something much larger and more developed than a tentative, new, if tender courtship with Molly Hooper. I promise, I am not planning on breaking him. I may be setting things up for Sherlock, but I'm not just throwing Greg Lestrade to the wolves to make it happen: I truly think the character as implied, and as played, has more grounding than that—and more opportunities waiting for him. And, heck, even if you don't agree with me, I've just given you a pointer to a really gorgeous song to add to your life-list. (smile)


	22. How Holmes Learned the Trick

Sherlock lay on his bed, as still and posed as a crusader's effigy on a stone tomb, hands pressed together, face empty—only the glow of the smart-phone screen giving away the fact that he was not enjoying the peace of the sacred dead. He looked at the time on the glowing screen. 3:38. He was still slightly drunk from earlier, but in that sobering-up state that combined the worst of rational thinking with emotional edginess and the first faint promise of a hangover—the nasty sort of hangover compounded of a day working his slow and steady way through too many pints with too little accompanying food or water and too many things upsetting him.

He was certainly not relaxed. And like many a slightly drunk and emotionally tetchy mortal, his instincts with a phone were lacking in sense...

...it should be confessed, however, he did have much better reasons for the call than most men dialing up former lovers from the depths of six-pint melancholy.

_Irene? Are you awake? SH_

_Has no one told you that waking a woman up to ask if she's sleeping is uncivil?_

_I need to know if you've made any progress._

_Sent you email last night._

_Ah. Had not checked yet._

_Do._

_Can you summarize?_

_I'm not going to get back to sleep until you're satisfied, am I?_

_No._

_You are an unrestful companion even at a distance, Sherlock._  He could imagine her rising from the bed, sweeping on her silk robes, and padding out to the balcony to curl into the deep rattan chair to continue texting.  _Why are you calling?_

_We're running out of time. Things are getting dangerous on my end. Summary?!_

_Much local activity, much local violence. None appears connected with your parties or queries._

_Violence?_

_Two honor killings in Karachi. One tribal feud that's broken out in new bloodshed. Taliban attempting to reinstate itself in the Swat District. Attack on three regional girls' schools: Taliban claims they served dual purpose as covert military ops bases; Pakistani government claims otherwise; fifteen girls dead regardless. Attack on a Christian church in Lahore. Smuggling ring seems to be undergoing an internal realignment—the kind that leaves corpses in its wake. No golden parachutes in the opium trade. But, no: none of the sort of thing you asked me to look for. Nothing that looks like any clear action, especially not anything non-local. Feints, yes: dozens of feints. False leads. Smoke and mirrors. Misinformation. People running round and round like the Caucus Race in Alice. But nothing that looks like more than that._

Her report rolled up the screen a sentence at a time, each new entry another set of facts leading him nowhere.

_Nothing more than that?_

_Just local gossip, all of a more or less domestic nature. There's been an outbreak of gang rapes aimed at "Westernized" women and schoolgirls: Sabiha is afraid to go out alone. She's joining a "modesty group" Madame Kanum and her sons have put together to protect the daughters of the family—they've been organizing local women to provide buddy-system travel and meetings for mutual protection. I'm afraid I may lose Sabiha. I'm .a Western Harlot: mad, bad, and dangerous to know._

He considered whether it was appropriate, mandatory, or merely gauche to offer Irene condolences on the possible loss of her lover. It was one of those social niceties not covered in his upbringing—and he'd long since realized his social intuition was complete bollocks. He chose to ignore the question.

_None of that fits. No indications of Western activity? Alliances, projects under way—are the Americans sending out drones? Anything at all?_

_The only Western Activity is Westerners looking for Western Activity—and only finding each other finding nothing to report. Round and round the mulberry bush..._

_Sounds like one of your sex games._

_Only for the orgies, dear. Group activities. Maybe party favors for the winners._

_Someone tried to kill me the other day. Me and a friend. Then they tried to capture another friend. They're looking for information, but I can't even see the shape of its shadow on the wall, much less the sort of details they've got to be after. It all points out your way. You're sure there's nothing more?_

" _Sure" is not a word I'd use in this sort of situation, darling...and I don't have the interest in higher maths to describe it in terms of complex variables of probability._

_You weren't bad at the calculus to describe sperm motility in baby oil. Remember the sperm races?_

_Remember? Of course. But, Sherlock, dear, I still think there are better ways to occupy an afternoon than checking to see what sperm reaches the end of a microscope slide first._

He remembered the intimacy of other days—easy, painless, navigated with no difficulty and left behind with no regret. He touched his lips, sense-memory of mere hours before making more demands on his always uncertain emotions than had all the months spent in Islamabad.

It made no sense...

_Irene—what are we to each other?_

_Pardon? Sherlock—have you been drinking?_

_What's a few beers, more or less? What are we? Lovers? Friends? Compatriots? Colleagues?_

_Do you really want an answer, love?_

_Yes._

_You won't like it._

_I don't need sympathy, I need information._

_We're non-competing apex predators with fringe benefits._

_That's all?_

_That's never all, dear. But it's a reasonable starting point. We're tigers together. It's lonely out here in the jungle, and the water buffalo are so dismally boring. We fascinate each other, like mirrors fascinate budgies._

_Oh._

_How many other tigers do you know, Sherlock?_

_Mycroft. Moriarty. You._

_And? How many that you'd willingly misbehave with? And please don't count Moriarty—necrophilia's beyond even my kink._

_Misbehave?_

_Shag, Sherlock._

_You._

_Case closed, tiger._

_Have you ever done more? Real love?_

_Sherlock? What's wrong? This isn't just beer talking._

_Nothing's wrong. Have you?_

_It's what I'm best at, dear. Doomed love. Sappho and I could sit together in a bar singing the blues in tight harmony._

_So instead you do tigers?_

_And water buffalo. Lots of meaty, stupid water buffalo. The water buffalo pay better. The rare tigers keep me sane..._

_I'm sorry about Sabiha._

_So am I. Sherlock, if the attacks on you are in London, maybe everything pointing toward my end is just an illusion. What's going on at your end that's really important?_

_I don't know. Mycroft's out of the game, and until he's better—and has his memory back—I can't ask him to show me what's not right._

_And his people can't do that for you?_

_They're not tigers. And even if they were—I'm only sure of a fraction of them._

_Not good. Odd though you may find it, I'd prefer you stay alive. As tigers go, you burn rather brightly. Be careful._

_I'm working at it. Keep looking—let me know if you find anything._

_I will. Sherlock? I don't know who has your heart in knots—but even the doomed loves are worth it. I'd rather sing the blues over Sabiha than have no songs at all._

_Sentiment. I would have thought you'd have given it up by now. It's deadly._

_No, love. It's life that's deadly. It's the loves that make it worth enduring._

_All hearts are broken._

_Yes..._

_I don't want to go there._

_It's not like you have a choice. The heartbreak's built in. All lives end. All loves are lost, ultimately. Good night, Sherlock._

_I do have a choice. I'm married to my work._

_Then consider taking up polyamory. The work's a cold damned mistress if it's all you have._

_It's mine._

_You're deluding yourself._

_I don't do heartbreak, Irene._

_We all do, my dear Mr. Holmes. Tears before teatime, no matter what. Now, please—let me sleep. I'm sad, and out of ideas._

_Me, too. Sleep well._

_Fat chance, after this conversation... Night, Sherlock._

_Night._

H _e_ clicked the phone shut. It was now 4:10, and he was still half-past sober, with the beginning of a headache.

Worse, he was already off-pattern on sleep, and it was getting worse, not better. If he wasn't careful he'd be out cold on the lino again in no time. For the first time in his life age was becoming something he had to at least consider...what he'd been able to do easily in his twenties on cocaine was harder to sustain in his thirties without.

He forced himself into a deep doze—not true sleep, but better than nothing. He even dreamed—vivid little lucid dreams with gem-tone images that terminated suddenly in the remembered touch of a kiss.

He sat upright as though on springs and hinged cantilevers.

He was going to have to discuss this with Molly Hooper. She couldn't be allowed to disrupt his equanimity this way. Not to mention disturb his sleep. He needed his sleep! She'd said so herself!

He even indulged in a few frenzied moments of affront for Greg Lestrade's sake—he was  _dating_ her, after all! Didn't he deserve more loyalty from her? Lestrade's easily imagined snigger ended that particular attempt at emotional evasive action. Indeed, the thought set Sherlock into a mental crab-scuttle away from the entire concept, as he imagined Lestrade's cheerful, teasing, "Why don't you kiss her back, sunshine? See where it gets you..."

"I already know where it gets me," he grumbled. "It gets me in trouble. I don't do this. I don't do feelings. I don't do it at all." He checked the time; it was 5:51. Soon it would be morning, though the sun was coming up later and later. He had a few hours before sunrise.

He rolled on his side, pulled the sheet over his shoulder, and nestled into the simple, clean-lined full sleigh bed. He again hooded himself in sleep. He dreamed of two ravens in a vast oak tree, murmuring that they'd be with him always, from cradle to grave, and a few detours wouldn't change that. Then they lifted off, seeming to soar like kites in a strong spring wind. They disappeared into white sky. As he woke again, someone—the crows, or Greg, or maybe Irene, seemed to say, "Tears before teatime."

He snarled at the odd dreams, and proceeded to shower and dress. Anything else seemed futile.

XXXXX

"Sherlock, dear, do you think you could possibly move? I can't reach the kettle, love, and if I don't have a cuppa..." Mrs. Hudson, like a number of others in 221B, was decidedly under the weather. "You've been standing there for three minutes, just staring. And you're about to drop your mug. And why are you down here, anyway? You do have your own kitchen, after all..."

"Blame Donovan and Anderson," he mumbled, moving aside to let his landlady pass.

"Donovan and Anderson? Oh, those nice friends of yours from MI5! So affectionate—a darling couple."

"Wrong on all counts, Mrs. Hudson. Well—aside from the affection, if you  _must_  call it that. I myself consider it nothing more than an example of a reflexive death-wish on both their parts. Unfortunately, they're currently acting out their suicidal tendencies in my kitchen. What were you thinking of, letting that mob in yesterday?"

"Sherlock, lovie, you're not a nice man when you're hung over. Can you grab that bottle over on the window sill? That's a dear. A couple of aspirin and some herbal soother should do the trick."

"Are you intending the soothers for you, or for me?" She gave him a look of maternal disapproval, and he snorted in spite of himself. "Oh, stop. You look far too much like Mycroft when he thinks I'm misbehaving in public."

"Oh, the way he looks all the time, you mean?" she teased, before gulping down two pills with a glass of water, then picking up her own mug of "special" tea. "Sit down and I'll make us some eggs and toast. How is Mycroft, anyway?" She stirred around the kitchen, collecting ingredients and equipment. When Sherlock didn't answer, she turned, frowning. "Sherlock, dear? Are you all right?"

He twitched, eyes guilty. Near eidetic sense-memory was not proving his friend that morning. He kept weighing the importance of the touch of lips... "Fine. Just fine. "

She studied him, frowning. "No, dearie, you're not, you know."

"Nothing a hot cuppa and brekkie won't solve," he said, with pretended cheerfulness. He forced a grin.

Mrs. Hudson shuddered, and flapped her hands at him. "Oh, do give over, Sherlock! That's as ghastly as an undertaker selling tooth bleach for corpses. Put your ordinary face back on—I'm used to it by now, and it won't put me off my breakfast."

She was such a comfort to him. Silly slippers, silly bathrobe, themed tea-and-scones apron tied over it all. And that sense of humor, ten times as big as she herself was? It had been years since he'd sat in this kitchen, being teased and fussed over...and he'd feared, for a while, that she'd never let him back in again...

"I missed you," he said. The words ambushed him—the feelings ambushed him.

She froze, eyes growing big as she registered what he'd said. "Sherlock?"

"While I was gone. I missed you. I've missed you since I came back, too."

They stood together in her kitchen, with the silent, sleeping house around them and the room filled with the sounds of the city waking on a slow Sunday morning. Her eyes went soft, and she cocked her head, a little London sparrow. "Oh, Sherlock, you silly, silly boy. You do make things hard for us all, don't you? Oh, stop looking so shattered—come give us a hug, you clot." She opened her arms to him and he stepped in, holding her tight.

Her hands slid around his back, finding the tension, patting him gently. "Sherlock, love, what's wrong?" He just shook his head, silent. She sighed, then. "Words, Sherlock—try using  _words_. They're all the rage, now, you know. Don't make me try to deduce you. You won't like the results."

His head bowed over hers. Hanging on tight, he said, "Try, Mrs. Hudson. Please? I don't know what's wrong. Maybe you can work it out."

She stepped back and studied his face, frowning slightly. With a sigh she stepped to the counter and grabbed a tissue from the box, coming back to wipe away tears that hadn't quite fallen from the corners of his eyes, making no other comment on his lapse. "Did you let yourself think at all about what was happening back here while you were gone, Sherlock?"

He looks guiltily away. "I—When I talked to Mycroft, I just wanted to know you were all well. Alive. It was enough."

"Stop that. I'm not scolding you for not caring about what was happening with us—though I may some other time. Look, sit down, drink your tea, and let me think while I finish cooking. We'll never eat at this rate. No, wait—make the toast, and get out the butter and the jam. You can make yourself useful for a change, lovie. And fill the kettle again—I think we're going to need it, today. Going to have a lot of sore heads come through later." In next to no time she was serving up plates filled with scrambled eggs and sliced ham.

"There," she said, sitting at her little table and pouring out a new cup of tea from the pot Sherlock had brewed. " _Now_  we can talk properly. So, let me see if I understand this. You ripped your life to pieces, faked dead, ran off to play soldier of fortune with Mycroft's people—and came back thinking you'd just pick up where you left off, didn't you?"

"More or less," he admitted. "Mostly. Pretty much entirely."

She smiled, a bit sadly. "So you came back and it was all different. Just like Peter Pan coming in the window only to find Wendy'd grown up. Poor boy..."

"I am not Peter Bloody Pan." He glared across the little table at her. "I'm not! Why does everyone accuse me of it?"

"Everyone?" She sniggered—fought to hold it back—sniggered again, covering her mouth with her hands. "Sorry, dear. But... Not that they're not right, but everyone? John? Greg Lestrade?"

"Molly accused me of it yesterday," he grumbled, leaning back over his breakfast. "Good eggs, by the way."

"Now I know there's something wrong—you're flattering my cooking," she said, tartly. "And good for her for hitting you with it, by the way. You're worse with her than with anyone... like a little boy who has to show off by shoving and bragging and calling names and pulling braids. I swear, you're dreadful to the poor girl—and her thinking the sun comes up in your smile!"

"Not any more she doesn't," he said. "Now she's all interviews and dating Lestrade and getting herself half-killed in hostage situations. Everything's changed. John's getting married. Mycroft's..." That one stopped him, and he frowned. "But that's not because of me leaving... Mycroft just got sick."

"It's still something you're not used to, dear. You don't like things changing. You're as set in your ways as an old bachelor—downright finicky, to tell the truth. No wonder you're all at sixes and sevens. We all went off without you, didn't we? And this horrible situation with your brother's only making it worse. Counted on him for more than you let yourself know, didn't you?"

"Mmmph." He concentrated on spreading marmalade on a piece of toast, rather than meet her eye.

"You're pouting, Sherlock. Leave that lower lip out like that and a little birdie's going to come perch on it." She flitted a hand lightly, miming a little bird preparing to land.

"Not if it wants to remain unbitten, it won't." He chomped into his toast, showing plenty of tooth in the process.

She giggled again. He had such a hard time resisting Mrs. Hudson's giggles. How odd to realise he loved best those who somehow took him least seriously...or who at least regularly failed to take his efforts at curmudgeonly reserve with much more than passing laughter. It wasn't rational at all, and if asked he'd have said otherwise before today. It was true, though.

"Mycroft needs to take lessons from you, Mrs. Hudson. He'd be much easier to take if he learned to laugh at me."

"He might laugh more easily if he didn't love you so much—and fear for you so badly. He's your brother, lovie. It complicates things. But he's your family."

"Not all my family. I've got you, for example-you're such a  _mum_."

She rolled her eyes, but he could see she was pleased. "Silly clot. But—Sherlock? I missed you, too. Look, love, you need to understand..." She got up and padded in slippered feet into the livingroom, then came back with an old cardboard box crammed with various papers—letters, old Christmas cards, fading photos. She opened it and quickly shuffled through the first layer, before drawing out a thin bulletin. It was two pages folded in half and stapled. The inner was plain white stock; the outer was somber grey with a black and white greyscale photo of Sherlock that he recognized from an award ceremony several years back, for having caught a serial killer.

Mrs. Hudson's hand was shaking. He took the bulletin cautiously, and felt his heart thud as he did so. He pushed feeling aside, and kept pushing, as for some reason feeling remained in spite of his efforts. "Who put it together?" he asked.

"I believe Mycroft did. I know it wasn't John or Greg. They were neither of them in any shape to do it." She paused, then said, more quietly, "I was really afraid for them, then. Greg had his work—or, really, what he had was the effort to save his job and prove he wasn't just your dupe. John didn't even have that, though. So...I think your brother made the choices."

"He didn't tell me. I was still in England, I know that. It took weeks to smuggle me out with a new identity." He turned it over and over, cracked it open, examined the order of service. "Pure C of E. How very Mycroft." He pauses, then flips back and forth, scowling and sputtering. "Was no one paying attention? Good lord, he as good as told them I was coming back! 'The Strife is O'er, the Battle Won'? And look at the scriptures he's chosen! Good God, just because we were brought up high church doesn't mean he should have used all that folderol as a secret code! I'm offended!"

She leaned over, frowning. "It was a very nice service, Sherlock...and, really. A funeral... It wasn't as though resurrection and the afterlife was that strange a theme..."

"It was Mycroft playing silly buggers." He sulked. "I'm going to have to write out a new will, and specify that the next time I'm dead I'm to be cremated and the service is to say, 'Dead and done with.' Maybe quote a bit of Ecclesiastes and play 'Dust in the Wind.' Dump me off the London Eye when it reaches its peak. I'd rather like to be spread over London, along with the grime and the pigeon droppings."

He touched the bulletin lightly, studying the front of the service program. "It isn't even a very good picture." There were dates. He touched the death-date—a date now so far in his past his brain insists on pointing out that it's not relevant any more—old history. "If I'd died, I'd be old history, wouldn't I?"

"Yes."

"You kept this." He could see that she'd rolled and unrolled it during the service, twisting it into a tight scroll. There were stains from dampness, too. He touched one, feeling the buckled, rough paper. "You cried."

"Oh, buckets! Most of us did, even Molly and Mycroft—well, Mycroft didn't cry buckets, but he did go through his pocket square quite badly and he had to sulk behind his umbrella outside afterward until he collected himself. And I don't think either of them were pretending, even if they did know you were alive. No matter what, all of us were still losing you."

"Why did you care? I'm really quite horrible, you know."

"Yes, dear. You often are. We love you anyway. I don't know what happened to all of these," she said, taking the program from him. "I think I remember Greg balling his up after the service and stomping it in the car-park after. Had nothing else to squish and stomp, I suppose, poor man. But all of us had one of these, once, for at least an hour or so. We all saw you to your grave. You just have to figure out how to catch up with us—because we can't go back, Sherlock. We can't. I don't know how to uncry the tears." Her voice broke, and she growled under her breath. "Bother. I'm being a complete muggins, now." She rose to get a tissue, but he was quicker, and pulled her back into a hug. She leaned against him, and hugged him back, clinging tight.

"I'm sorry," he said. "All I seem to say anymore. 'Sorry, sorry, sorry.' But I am. All I wanted was to save your lives. I...I need you all to live. I needed you all to be real."

"You did save us, Sherlock. You just have to remember it was major surgery, not 'take two and call me in the morning.' There are all these nasty, horrible scars, like after a C-section or heart surgery. Do you see? Sherlock, we love you—and you were ripped right out of us. It was dreadful."

He nodded. "How are you all even brave enough to try again? I'm not even brave enough to try once..."

She pulled back, collected the tissue she'd been seeking, and blew her nose, vigorously, before grabbing another and wiping her eyes. "Well, love, you might stop asking us to do all the hard work, if you want to make it a bit easier. 'I'm sorry' is well and good, but, really, love, you do demand blood, sweat, tears before you hand out any sweeties."

"He doesn't give out sweeties, Mrs.H. It's against his religion or something. Sherlock, have you been making Mrs. H. cry?" Lestrade leaned in the kitchen door, looking substantially the worse for wear.

"Oh, Greg—we've just been going over memories," Mrs. Hudson said. "Let me get you a cup of tea, love. You look awful."

"Yeah, well. I'm too tall for your tub. Where do you keep the spare blades for the safety razor? The one that's in yours isn't fit to saw timber..."

"I've got spare disposables upstairs, if you don't mind having to go past Anderson and Donovan's Lurv Fest on the way to the lav," Sherlock says. "Just take one—feel free to use the shower, too. Frankly, I'm surprised you stayed."

"Such a welcoming fellow." Lestrade accepted a mug of tea from Mrs. Hudson with open gratitude. "I dunno, sunshine. It's just—it's been a long time since I was at the kind of party where people doss in the tubs and bay at the moon. And I never expected to be at a party like that at your house, eh? How could I resist?" He slipped through the kitchen and leaned against the back wall. He looked over the table, and nodded toward the bulletin from the funeral. "That was a hell of a day. Wish you'd been there. I'd have had a lot more fun."

"I just wanted—"

"—to save our lives. I know. I understand the cost-to-benefits ratio, I know why you and Mycroft did what you did. It just doesn't really make it all that much better, eh? The hurt that keeps on hurting. Nothing you can make of it. For a while there I wasn't even sure you were that glad to be back, y'know?"

"As I recall, when I returned you greeted me with a handshake and an invitation to go out for beers sometime," Sherlock said, gloomily.

"Well it's not like I'm going to freak you out by giving you a bloke-hug, now is it?"

"I'm not that easily freaked, Lestrade," Sherlock growled. "You're much too convinced I'm 'delicate' or something."

"Considering the shape you were in when I first met you, sunshine..."

"Oh, no. That's years ago, Lestrade—I'm clean, now!"

"Thin as a pencil, he was," Lestrade said to Mrs. Hudson, calmly ignoring Sherlock's squall. "He drifted a yard sideways every time the wind picked up: I thought I'd have to tie him to a squad car to anchor him. And if you said anything nice to him he swore like a soldier and doubled down on his insults. Least huggable person you ever met."

"Oh, now that's just uncalled for, Lestrade." Sherlock knew he was being baited, but wasn't quite sure how, or to what purpose.

Lestrade looked up, and flicked his brows in a sort of semaphored shrug. "Hey, I'm not going to cross your boundaries, Sherlock... I figured it out years ago. No compliments, no calling you a friend, and for God's sake, no bloke-hugs. 'No sentiment,' I think you said."

"He's got a point, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson chimed in, eyes merry.

"What's Sherlock up to now?" John asked, padding into the kitchen. He caught Sherlock's eye, and said, "Anderson and Donovan—you see what they're up to?"

"Unfortunately, yes," Sherlock sighed.

"Hey, I scored 'em ten for creativity," John said, dropping two teabags in his mug and adding water from the kettle. "I'd never have thought they could manage that without knocking over your chemistry lab, me. Go figure... So what's on down here?"

"Greg's explaining to Sherlock why he shook his hand instead of giving him a hug when he got back," Mrs. Hudson said, mischievously.

"Yeah? Well, yeah. Of course, yeah," John said, his own eyes lighting like the very dickens. He exchanged glances with Lestrade. "I mean, 's not like you'd want to freak Spock out, or anything. Y've got to respect his dignity, don't you, now?"

"What's going on?" Molly said, stumbling into the kitchen. Her hair was in a frayed, frowsy braid and she'd found an oversized t-shirt somewhere to wear as a night shirt.

"The boys are teaching Sherlock a lesson," Mrs. Hudson chuckled.

Sherlock glared at all of them. "You're ganging up on me."

"Mmmmm," John agreed, amiably. "Sounds accurate enough. What do you think, Greg? Are we ragging on him?"

"Ragging? Mmmm...maybe not ragging. Having him on? Yeah, I'd say we're having him on. Giving him a bit of a leg-pull. Winding him up a bit. Takin' the piss out of him."

"No," John said, sternly. "I refuse to take the piss out of anyone but me this early in the morning, and that's already been seen to."

"All right, maybe not taking the piss out of him—I'll give you that one," Greg agreed. "What about taking the mickey?"

"Yeah, I'll go with taking the mickey..."

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "If the two of you are done, now..."

Mrs. Hudson tugged his sleeve, gently. When he looked down she whispered, softly, "Don't make them do all the work, you prat."

He blinked. "What?"

"Sherlock, for God's sake..." She cocked her head and gave him the look one might give a particularly slow bridge partner who's failing to play a crucial trump card in a tournament match.

Molly was barely resisting giggles. John rolled his eyes, and said to Greg and Mrs. Hudson, "We're just going to have to work out a code phrase and train him, I think. Like 'Vatican Cameos' means 'duck.' What do we use for 'hug your mates, you stupid bloke?'"

"'Arsenal Wins World Cup,'" Greg suggested.

"Mmmm. I'm a Chelsea man, myself. 'Free drinks?'" John countered.

"How about just 'Honey, I'm Home'" Molly said, amused.

Greg and John both gave her the look that men use to indicate that women just don't quite get it.

Sherlock, meanwhile, was finally gaining possession of a clue. "Oh," he said. Then, more annoyed. "Oh." He sighed...then grinned as Greg and John both looked at him. "Morons," he said, fondly. "Idiots. You could have just asked."

"No, dear. Sometimes  _you_  have to ask," Mrs. Hudson said, firmly. He felt her hand in the small of his back. She pushed him forward. "You know how."

Unprepared for his own shyness, Sherlock hesitated—then, warily, opened his arms.

John and Greg exchanged glances. "Now?" John asked. Greg considered. "Yeah. Now..."

They mobbed him. There was considerable thumping and back-slapping and head-gripping and hair ruffling...and when they surfaced, Mrs. Hudson and Molly were gone, and there were three open beers on the table and a note saying, "Just this once, you've earned a drink before lunch-time."

XXXXX

Later, in Mrs. Hudson's living room, he got a call from Not-Anthea.

"How's Mycroft?" he asked before she could even greet him.

"Doing better in some ways," she said. "His lungs are clear. Lund wants you to drop over today to sign off on pulling the drainage tubes and catheters, but Mr. Holmes has already given his own approval—you're mostly a formality, now, until the amnesia passes or they decide it's not going to. Beemish and Mr. Emery are crawling down my knickers trying to get an estimate on when—or whether—your brother's going to be fit to take over again."

"Do Uncle William and Mr. Beemish seem to think that's an event to be applauded, or mourned?"

"I couldn't say," Not-Anthea replied. "Which leads me to suspect they're not looking forward to it, actually. Most of us want Mr. Holmes back yesterday—and the day before yesterday, if possible. It's...not possible."

He heard the weary concern in her voice. "He's still not fit?"

"He's pulling a blank on most of the past half-year, and what he does remember is patchy. I'm reviewing everything we know about, but your brother had entire lines of reasoning he kept to himself. Even if I can re-educate him, I don't know if he can reconstruct his own private projects...and those private projects are what make the difference between him and any other Secret Service bureaucrat. Have you learned any more from your own sources? I'm getting desperate, here." He could hear that in her voice, too—a ragged, worn note of someone stretched too thin, and too concerned for too many things of importance, including her executive officer.

"Talked to my Islamabad contact last night. Nothing," he said with regret. "She's beginning to think the Middle Eastern connection is a feint of some sort, and the real action is on our end. How does that look to you?"

"Hard to say. My gut says Mr. Holmes has something in play out there—that Mr. Emery and Beemish aren't wrong to think there's something under way. But I can't find anything, either... and on this end... Sherlock, I don't like what I think I see. We've done background checks on the men who went down at King's Cross yesterday. They're not ours, but they're freelancers who work with us a lot of the time. Independent guns we use when we don't want to leave tracks. Technically they could be working for anyone, but it bothers me that I know they work for us even some of the time. That limits the kinds of connections they'd have—and increases the odds of it being someone inside our division."

Sherlock leaned back in Mrs. Hudson's armchair, pushing aside a decorated pillow that said, "It's Good to Be the Queen," with a little gold crown stitched above the motto. "You've worked with Mycroft for a long time, haven't you?"

"Years."

"Have you worked with him on many of his 'private' ventures?"

"Some. Not many. I get the feeling that a lot of his private ventures are...I don't know. Self-propelling? Finesse jobs: he knows the right domino. He knocks it over, and then sits back and watches the cascade. If something goes wrong, he's already got ten dominoes in place and he can pick the right one to correct the line of fall. I've been a correction domino a time or two. That's all."

"Subtle work?"

"The subtlest."

He thought about it some more. "Wet work?"

"As seldom as possible. Mr. Holmes disapproves of wet work. He says it's a sign someone failed to think things through before—and is going to regret not thinking things through later, too."

"He didn't mind me working against Moriarty's team."

"He said that wasn't wet work, it was just taking out the garbage. And that you had a treat coming to you."

"Should I feel honoured or patronized?"

"Both. It's Mr. Holmes. He always makes his words do double duty. His actions, moreso."

He pondered the point. After a few seconds, Not-Anthea said, anxiously, "Sherlock? Are you still there?"

"Still here. Thinking. How would you describe my brother's priority stack? What are his highest ranking goals?"

"Depends, a bit on what hat he's wearing. As one of very few globally respected anti-terrorist consultants? World peace and diplomacy. As the unrecognized unifying force behind much of the British government and secret service? The good of England. As a private citizen?" She hesitated, then said, softly, "You, sir. He's stripped almost everything else out of his life. You're what's left." She pulled herself together, then, adding, "Whenever possible he tries to find an answer that satisfies him regardless of what hat he's wearing. Rather like letting you hunt Moriarty's men. It improved the odds of world peace and diplomacy, it was of benefit to England, and you had a very good time. And you were working under circumstances where he at least knew what risks you took, and could prepare himself for anything going wrong. It's what he hates most about your usual line of work, I think—that he never knows what sorts of risk you'll take, or what kind of phone-call he may received from your Mr. Lestrade at midnight."

"I...see." The thought of Mycroft silently, constantly worrying about him was disarming. The idea that he was the one person Mycroft had left himself who could leave him that vulnerable was utterly mind-boggling. He changed the subject, determined to think things through further at a later time. "Uncle William and Mr. Beemish: where do they fall in the in-house factions of your services?"

"Both roughly right-wing. Suspicious of the EU. Both rather out of date—your uncle particularly yearns for Empire. Both old school Thatcherites. Philosophically both fond of setting enemies and allies at each other's throats, so they wear themselves out without our having to. They like plans that weaken other nations, and strengthen our own...but they'll settle for the first, as it's easier to accomplish."

"And Mycroft?"

"A light hand on the reins, for the most part. And he tends to fight patterns, not enemies or nations. What's good for England is peace, liberty, and alliances. I think he sees England itself as being a particular pattern in history—one he wants to see prevail, by any name, and in any nation."

"So...you'd consider my brother to be at odds with Uncle William and Mr. Beemish? Philosophically, that is?"

"No, sir. Mr. Holmes would see that as a waste of his time, for the most part. He'd work with them when it was effective, and dodge politely and elegantly when it wasn't. But—they might consider themselves at odds with him. Philosophically or otherwise."

"I see." He sighed. "Look, I'll try to get over to talk with Mycroft later today. But in the meantime, keep up the watch, and keep doing what you can to bring him up to date. Even if he doesn't remember everything—he's Mycroft. I'd back him with amnesia over any ten other people without."

"Likewise," Not-Anthea said, approvingly, and proceeded to give a broad report on how she was arranging things, before closing the call.

Sherlock rose, and paced the room, dodging around tv trays and dusty houseplants, pondering. It bothered him that Irene was finding nothing in the Middle East: her contacts were varied, useful, and knew few boundaries or borders. If Mycroft had been doing something, Irene was brilliantly placed to have spotted it.

But if she'd spotted it, he'd have been inclined to doubt it was Mycroft's work. Not-Anthea's comments confirmed his own growing suspicions of his brother's methods. He'd use what was natural to the area, for purposes few might even consider, and leave little if any sign of his involvement. He'd flick a well-chosen domino, and let gravity do all the work for him. Which left the matter of factions on this end—and a very real question of who was playing whom. And why...

"Sherlock?"

He spun, hands still folded, prayer-like, at his chin. "Molly?"

She'd brushed her hair and tied it in her normal side pony-tail, and appeared to have borrowed some clothes from Mrs. Hudson for a clean change. She hesitated at the door of the living room. "Yeah. Getting ready to go home, now. Just..wanted to say goodbye."

He nodded, uncertain himself. He could feel her kiss again, unnerving him, his skin remembering too clearly what his mind could not entirely grasp. "Yes. Good. I mean... have a good trip back."

"Yeah." She ducked her head, turned to go, then turned back, still staring at her toes. "I just wanted to say... I'm sorry I yelled at you, yesterday. You were right. I shouldn't have tried to keep up. I... I wanted to live up to you all, you see?"

He frowned. "No. I don't see at all."

She glanced up, then, brown eyes sad and resigned. "You—you should have seen yourselves. You and John and Greg, on the hunt. You're  _beautiful._ You're heroes. It's...hard. Hard knowing I can't live up to that. Just... Molly in the morgue. After you... died. For a long time after that I felt like I was a hero, too. I helped. Yesterday reminded me it's not the same, though, is it? It's...I guess it's like wanting to be a star, but finally figuring out you're just a character actor. You know: the ones who are never going to get any awards that don't say 'in a supporting role'? Or like wanting to be a concert pianist, and finally realizing you're never going to be anything but an usher with a great record collection who can play a mean round of 'Chopsticks.'"

"Molly... All right, John and Greg: yes, heroes. Absolutely. I completely agree with you. But I'm just  _crazy_. There is a difference. You do know that, don't you? I assure you, I'm mentally aberrant. I like to think I'm usefully insane on occasion, but, I mean, really: I chase criminals for fun and thrills. You really do have to recognize that this is probably not an indication of a mentally stable person, much less a hero."

Her eyes laughed at him. "And you think John and Greg do it because it's dull? Or in spite of it being exciting? Sherlock, they're adrenaline junkies, too, just like you. Even  _Nigel_  is a thrill junkie. And that's just it: I'm not. For about three minutes, I thought I could be. But the truth is, I really hated being scared—and I didn't have the speed, the strength, or the skills to play games with the big boys. I was lucky to get out of there alive. I was luckier I didn't get anyone else hurt, unless you count that nut who had me. I'm not a hero. I'm a morgue tech with a chance of a med degree. But that's it. This time—I'm sorry. I was stupid. Next time I'll remember."

His mind spun in too many directions at once. On the one hand—yes. He could see it that way. He often did see it that way: the ordinary people. The boring ones. People who stayed in their nice, safe places and did nice, safe jobs. Dull. A lesser breed. To use Irene's metaphor—not tigers. Water buffalo. He'd been quick enough to label the ordinary, certainly.

But Molly Hooper was not ordinary, and not wanting to chase criminals, or even having a tiger-mind, like he and Irene and Mycroft... that didn't make her ordinary. And he couldn't say why, any more than he could say why Mrs. Hudson was no less special than John and Greg. He just knew she was...and that he had to find a way to say so, to answer that sad, beaten expression in her eyes.

"Heroes...don't always do big things, Molly Hooper. You're more than a supporting player."

She shrugged, and smiled a little, mouse-Molly smile, as though she was too embarrassed to be comforted. "Thanks," she said... but it was quiet and hopeless. She turned to leave.

He cleared his throat, trying to figure what he could do to change this. It was wrong—and it was wrong in all the ways in which he was completely hopeless. It was wrong in the ways he usually counted on other people to compensate for his own glaring lack of talent. Which, come to think of it, did provide a clue...

"Molly? Arsenal Wins the World Cup."

She turned, frowning in puzzlement. "What?"

"Free drinks?"

She shook her head. "Sherlock..."

"Oh, for God's sake, Molly, I refuse to say 'Honey, I'm home.'" He held his arms out, uncertain. "Would you  _please_  come collect a hug before I make a complete fool of myself?"

She gave a mouse-squeak of a giggle, then cautiously approached, stepping into his embrace. Her arms eased uncertainly around his waist. He wrapped her closer, and let one hand slide up to the back of her head, pushing her gently, encouraging her to lean against him. "You are a hero, Molly Hooper. You helped save my life. You kept my secret for years. You're brave—brave enough to grow, and change. You're going to be a great forensic doctor. You don't have to chase killers to be a hero."

So strange, he thought. I can feel her fight with that—she's shivering. She's afraid to believe it.

How in the world am I supposed to deal with courageous mice? I'm an apex predator. I'm not good at this. I was much better at calling her names and ordering her around her own lab.

He risked a soft stroke along her hair. "It's all right. Really."

She nodded, head shifting against his chest. "Okay. I'll try to believe it."

"Good. But—" he looked for a properly stern voice, unconsciously echoing Lestrade. "You don't go chasing killers. It's not safe."

She snorted. "All right, Sherlock. I'll leave the killers for you and John and Greg. And that aide of your brother's. And Aqua, whoever she really is. I'll stick with y-incisions and med school interviews. That's enough adrenaline for me."

"Right." He approved. Molly would be much safer that way.

"I do want to go home, Sherlock," Molly said, cautiously.

"Mmmph." He reluctantly unwrapped his arms, stepping back...

"Ouch-ouch—Sherlock, my hair's caught in your buttons...ouch-dammit-ouch!"

He swore, and lowered his head, trying to see. "Can you..."

"No. I can't. I'm stuck..."

"Hang on, I'll try to help." He felt by Braille, finding the tangle. He twisted strands, working them around the button.

It didn't work. Had he turned the hair the wrong way, wrapping it tighter? He tried again, twisting the other way.

"Not. Working. Sherlock. Hurts!" Molly gritted, clutching his shirt as she tried to stay steady.

"I'm trying my best," he snarled back. "It's not letting go."

On the stairs in the hallway beyond, he heard footsteps, followed by Donovan's voice saying, "The Freak didn't throw a bad party, did he?" Anderson replied in a low tone—agreement, but with some sort of edge. Sherlock swore harder. It would have been bad enough for them to walk in while he was hugging Molly—quite ruining his image with Lestade's team. But for them to walk in while he was stuck to Molly, both of them hapless and helpless and obviously in a muddle after embracing? Intolerable! "Molly, move backward very slowly."

"Why?"

"Because Donovan and Anderson are coming down, and we're hiding in Mrs. Hudson's coat closet, just in case they look in here."

"Why? I mean, at the very least they could get scissors..."

He could feel her drawing a breath to call for help. He put his palm over her mouth. "Molly? Just—move. Please?"

He could feel the snort of laughter against his hand, and then a nod. "Okay..."

He eased them both toward the closet, moving as fast as he dared, trying not to panic as he heard the two coming closer. He got the door open, and muttered again. "Down—it's too full to stand. Here, follow me down..."

She giggled. "I think I'm kneeling on a pair of old go-go boots."

"Do I care? No. I do not care." He hooked his nails under the edge of the closet door, pulling it shut just in time.

"Where did everyone go?" Donovan was asking. "I wanted to say goodbye to Mrs. Hudson and the Freak—and ask the boss what was on for tomorrow if no new cases come in." She giggled then. Anderson murmured something, and there was a brief interlude of what Sherlock suspected was some serious snogging.

Molly, meanwhile, was gingerly trying to pick her hair free from his buttons. His knees rose on either side of her, her weight lay across him. It was definitely a first. He'd done any number of things with Irene in the interests of accumulating some practical knowledge and inoculating himself against future temptations. He was quite sure he hadn't done the right things to inoculate himself against this. It felt far more intimate than anything he and Irene had done, in spite of the fact that not one thing happening could plausibly count as being in any sense sexual.

Well...no. To be strictly accurate, his body was doing several things that qualified. He was trying to ignore that, though. Failing—but he was making the effort. That had to count for something, didn't it?

"I think I've got it," Molly hissed, softly, easing back. She drew her head back, and stretched, lying more fully on his chest...

And then, of course, the voices outside began again, and the footsteps approached—and the closet door opened.

Sherlock sighed, and pointed up. "I suspect your coats are up there, officers."

Donovan gaped at him—then a slow, amused grin spread across her face. "Yeah, Freak—but the good view's down there."

"It's not what you think," Sherlock grumbled.

"Of course not. You can't possibly be snogging a pretty girl in a closet, after all," Anderson snarked. "That would be much too normal. So what  _are_ you doing? Figuring out how a killer offed the victim in your latest case?"

"Kinky," murmured Donovan, approvingly. "Or he could be teaching her how to manage in other kinds of hostage situation."

"Yeah—that's possible," Anderson said, considering the idea. "We should call the boss and ask him what he thinks."

"I have pictures of your 'sex puppy' boxers, Anderson," Sherlock snarled. "And Donovan, I believe your co-workers might be very interested in your tattoo. It's quite unique."

The two looked at each other, and sighed in resignation, before looking back down. "Yeah, okay, Freak," Donovan said, "I think that's probably sufficient blackmail. You want to know the really horrible thing about this, though?"

"What?" Sherlock asked, suspiciously.

"After this—I almost  _like_ you," she said—then grabbed two coats and shut the closet door. He could hear her leave, giggling, with Anderson chortling alongside.

"No, you don't!" he shouted after them.

"I don't think they heard," Molly murmured, choking back laughter.

"Probably not," he agreed. Then, instead of doing any of the sensible things that might have suggested themselves, he let his hands slide over her back, and pulled her closer.

"Sherlock?"

"Shhhh."

"Um... "

"You do know what they were thinking, don't you?"

"I'm not stupid, Sherlock."

"No. Neither am I. If I've got to live with Anderson and Donovan thinking from here on in that I was snogging you in a coat closet, then I want a proper snog that's worth the humiliation," he said, and slipped into the first kiss he'd ever had that mattered enough to terrify him.


	23. Talent Recognizes Genius

 

 

 

  
**I met a woman** **  
****She had a mouth like yours** **  
****She knew your life** **  
****She knew your devils and your deeds** **  
****And she said** **  
****"Go to him, stay with him if you can** **  
****But be prepared to bleed"**  


**Joni Mitchell, "A Case of You."**

As kisses went, Molly had to confess to herself that this one rated mixed reviews. It was determined, and Sherlock had learned the core mechanics of kissing extremely well somewhere along the line. "Mechanics" did seem to be one of the operative phrases, though—along with, perhaps, "competitive" in the sense of a show-piece, like competitive figure skating or competitive gymnastics. It was easy to imagine that somewhere there was a panel of judges with white cardstock score cards, preparing to score points. "Sufficient lip and tongue action." "Drool-free." It would have gotten a ten on style. She was too recently experienced with Greg's kisses, though, to miss that it was a bit lacking in soul or freeform improvisation. It was strictly ballroom.

Her knees were dented and sore from kneeling on what Molly was certain were go-go boots—the oldest go-go boots still kept on active duty in anyone's closet. And the closet itself was a bit off-putting: stuffy, with a faint smell of moth-balls and damp woolens. Above them was a press of coats and jackets. Behind her seemed to be a bouquet of umbrellas, brooms, and even a collapsible shovel of some sort. And a cricket bat—no doubt a vital element in Mrs. Hudson's private home security arsenal.

Offsetting all of that was the tremor of Sherlock's hands on her back, the warm clutch of his long grasshopper thighs gripping her hips, the hitch of his breath as he leaned into the kiss. Those, more than skill or rigorous style, sold it for her.

She waited out the complex, ritual completion of his first effort, then leaned against him, unconsciously channelling Greg Lestrade's gentle, lazy ease and tenderness. "Shhhh. Relax, love. Here, let me..." She let her hands slip up around Sherlock's neck, fingers and thumbs framing the back of his skull, then nibbled and tongued the two of them into a soft, explorative kiss, less concerned with style than with discovery.

Silent questions; silent answers. Do you like this, Sherlock? Yes. He liked that. And this? Yes. Why don't you try this? she said without words, drawing one of his hands up to trace her body. Pulled away from his set-piece, he was uncertain, less sure of himself—but every new discovery rattled through him, easy to read through her palms, through the sound of his breath, through tiny, surprised gasps and whimpers.

At some point, he came to a turning point. His confidence grew, and he began warily combining the easy exploration with just a touch of his own carefully tutored style, learning a move at a time what worked. She wasn't really that surprised he was a fast learner: that ravenous mind noticed too much, understood it too well for him to fail at this if his heart was in the experience. Pretty soon they were on even ground, effectively melting each other's defences, leaving nothing but a long, hungry dance without music, ending temporarily on a sigh. She lay across his chest; he cradled her, his face pressed against her hair.

"Oh." He said with sudden wonder, a child seeing his first butterfly. "Oh."

"Mmmm," she agreed.

"That's quite disturbing," he whispered. "I... If you weren't pinning me down so effectively, I think it likely I'd run away, now."

"I can let you up," she offered, sympathetically. She'd felt a bit the same in Greg's arms, learning that love-making was so much more expansive, so much more revealing, so much more tender than she'd known before. And learning the same lesson again in Sherlock's arms was worse—more intense, if only for his fragile exploration. He was like a fawn staggering to its feet for the first time—breathtaking and wonderful.

"No. Not quite yet," he said, arms tightening. "I need to think."

Of course he needed to think—Sherlock, after all.

"Don't think too long," she said, chuckling. "My knees hurt. I'd really rather we didn't stay here in the closet, either. There have to be better places around here."

He nodded. "Yes. Upstairs. My room. John's old room. Even..." he stopped. "I don't think you were asking for a list, were you?"

"Not really."

"I'm not going to be good at this, Molly," he said, worriedly. "I'm not just going to be a bit not-god. I'm going to be a lot not-good. I won't get flowers or buy cards or remember anniversaries. I'll still hate your stupid kitten macros. I'm not going to be nice, or comfortable, or predictable. I'm not going to be a good lover. I'll lose my temper. I'll still insult you. I'll get carried away and forget you for days. Um... on bad days I'll mistake you for a good lab subject. I will. It's not going to stop being that way." He sounded harried. "You're going to want to kill me, most of the time. People do, you know. John wants to kill me. Lestrade wants to kill me. Mycroft pretty much  _always_  wants to kill me."

She smiled and rubbed her face against him. "You probably will. And I'll try to do what they do—yell at you, tell you when you're out of line, insult you back, explain when you're being a complete berk. And love you."

"Oh."

It was such a small sound. It stole her heart away.

"What are we?" he asked. "Are we—a couple? Lovers? An item? What are we? What are the rules?"

She could hear the intensity of the questions... No. He didn't know. He was Sherlock, and he wasn't sure at all. No doubt from the outside he could have observed and presented a scathing, exact analysis of their relationship. From inside, he was dead hopeless—entirely lost.

"I think it depends a bit on what you want," she said, cautiously, knowing that with Sherlock she might well be opening the door to all kinds of hurt feelings and rejections. "I'd say... I'd say I'm pretty serious. But I've loved you for a long time. It's going to be hard not to be serious."

"You mean you want to be a couple?"

She considered. "Maybe—not quite a couple? Not ready to move in with you, that's for sure. Not ready for heads in the fridge. How about 'seriously seeing each other'?"

"I think I can do that." After a moment, he said, cautiously, "You can still see Lestrade, too. I—I don't own you."

"I might," she said, with a shiver. She hadn't thought about that, and she didn't know where to place it. "I don't know. I really don't. It may depend on him."

He nodded.

Deep in his trousers pocket, his phone cheeped. "Text," he said, and squirmed, eventually retrieving it. He opened the message, then smirked, his face lit by the screen. He turned it to face her. It was from John.

_Greg and I are trying to be polite, but our coats are in that closet. Any chance you'll be out soon?_

She laughed. Sherlock took the phone back, then typed quickly, turning the phone eventually so she could see his response.

_Soon. Don't rush me. It's complicated. SH_

_K.I.S.S.—Keep It Simple, Stupid. Save complicated for the bedroom, Sonny Jim. Closets are for novices._

Molly snatched the phone out of his hand, and typed her own message.

_You have no idea just how full this closet is, John Watson. Believe me, Casanova would find it complicated. Give us a mo' to figure out how to escape, eh? (Molly)_

_Yeah, okay. TMI. There's tea in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen when you've figured out the human origami, girl. Don't let Sherlock try anything too fancy: he's not what you'd call practical._

They both smiled in the dim light. Sherlock pushed the door of the closet, popping it open. Molly gingerly unwound herself, hands bracing on the walls and doorframe of the closet, supporting her as she eased herself from between Sherlock's legs. Once out she stepped back, allowing him to wiggle and twist his own escape. When he was out she peered down.

"Yep. Go-go boots," she said, with some satisfaction. "Red, too. Mrs. Hudson wasn't a quiet little girl back in her day, was she?"

"I believe not," Sherlock said. "But she seems to have few regrets, beyond her involvement with the late Mr. Hudson—of whom, the less said the better."

Each took the time to tidy up.

"You need to redo your hair," he said. "There's a long bit pulled free." He gestured, hand clawing uncertainly near his head, miming her own disarray. It was clear he wasn't used to providing "living mirror" services to girlfriends.

"Mmm. Give me a moment," she said, straightening the blouse she'd borrowed from Mrs. Hudson. Then she quickly redid the ponytail. "I'm neat, now?"

"Yes." He studied her—and a second later his eyes darkened, and he looked down. "Mycroft would know you'd been kissing. I'm not sure about John and Greg and Mrs. Hudson. They don't observe as closely."

"They already know," she pointed out, feeling a bit rattled. It wasn't going to be easy walking into that kitchen. For that matter, it was going to be a bit odd having a lover who could read his kisses on her face. She reached up to touch her lips, wondering if they were giving her away.

"It's more your eyes," Sherlock said, refusing to look at her. "And your breathing is still a bit off."

"I see. Well..."

"Yes. Well."

She forced herself to stand straight. Gritting her teeth, she marched toward the kitchen. She could hear the murmur of voices—soft laughter, both John and Greg. She took a deep breath and stepped through the door.

Three heads turned. Three sets of eyes looked at her.

Greg smiled and winked, kind and approving. She felt a bit of the terror ease out of her. She smiled back. John was intently studying his tea mug, fighting back a knowing grin.

"Well, it's good to have my closet back," said Mrs. Hudson, with entirely unhidden glee. "Been a long time since that bit of the flat saw so much action."

"It's been put to that use before?" Greg asked, with what appeared to be honest curiosity.

"Oh, yes. I wasn't always an old stick," Mrs. Hudson assured him. "I was in with the Mods, dear! And when London was swinging, I was one of the girls swinging it! Daresay there's nothing you know that I didn't know first." She winked mischievously. "And if I were a decade or so younger, I'd prove it to you, too."

His brows shot up, and he laughed. "You know—I think I'd let you."

She looked at him under her lashes. "Oh, you would, dearie. You would. And you wouldn't regret it, either. I was a fast young thing in my day."

"And she's still got the go-go boots to prove it," Molly said.

"You'd know!" Mrs. Hudson chuckled. "My word, I hadn't thought about those in I don't know how long."

Sherlock sidled into the room, warily, avoiding John and Greg's eyes. He made himself a mug of tea, and failed to look nonchalant and relaxed.

Greg and John exchanged glances, apparently deciding if the right thing for "best mates" was to tease the living daylights out of him, or step back. Molly caught Greg's eye, and shook her head. If there was an amused sparkle in his eye, there was also understanding. He nodded back, sent a glance to John, and the two appeared to reach agreement.

John said, calmly, "Got to get back home, then. Make some dinner and get to bed early. Work in the morning."

"Yeah, me, too." Greg washed his mug out in the sink, and put it up to drain. "I've got the car with me, John. Want a lift home?"

"That would be good."

"Molly?"

Molly hesitated. A lift would be good. She wasn't ready to spend the night, and was fairly sure Sherlock wasn't ready for that, either. But a lift home with Greg could get unsettling...especially as she wasn't at all sure what she wanted to do there.

Not at all. Indeed, her feelings approached being perfect examples of "not a clue."

She licked her lips, uneasily.

"I've got to go see Mycroft this evening," Sherlock said. "Molly, if you want to come with me, I can have the cab drop you off at your place on the way home."

"That sounds good," she said. "I want to see how he's doing."

He nodded, silent.

The feeling of being watched intently was totally weird, Molly thought. She could almost feel the cautious looks, almost hear the thoughts as John, Greg, and Mrs. Hudson evaluated the situation. As the two men prepared to leave, she noticed them brushing against Sherlock like ponies in a paddock, shoulders touching briefly, establishing friendship. Greg risked a hand cupped briefly over Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock didn't twitch it away, but stood, unmoving.

Greg smiled, and continued on. John had fetched their coats, and the two got ready for the late fall weather outside.

Then they made a point of hugging both Mrs. Hudson and Molly on their way out, and brushing kisses on their cheeks. John's were gentlemanly, and a bit austere. Greg flirted briefly with Mrs. Hudson, making her blush and giggle. Then he gave Molly a full hug, her kiss on the cheek—and one on the tip of her nose. His eyes were happy, if less blatantly flirtatious than they'd been. "Call me if you want?"

"I will," she said, and tiptoed, placing her own kiss on his cheek.

It was unsettled—but also comfortable. She didn't feel trapped or judged, and she'd been afraid she would.

"I'd better get my own things," Sherlock murmured, as they left. He left the mug on the counter, and seemed to turn to vapour, misting up the stairs.

Molly and Mrs. Hudson looked at each other.

Mrs. Hudson's mouth quirked up. "Well?"

Molly blushed. "Um..."

"Nice?"

She nodded, blushing pinker. "Nice."

Mrs. Hudson squealed, happily. "Eeee!" She bounced on her toes and fluttered her hands, seeming all of eighteen, rejoicing with a girlfriend. "Yes!"

Molly couldn't resist. Even she was swept away in Mrs. Hudson's delight. She giggled.

There were footsteps at the head of the stairs, and Sherlock's voice came down, his baritone a rich, funereal groan. "You're doing the girl thing, aren't you?"

"Yes, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson fluted, still giggling, "We are."

"If I return to the flat to collect a tablet, will you stop doing the girl thing?"

"Probably not completely, dear. I think we'll be past the more squeaky bits, though. Is that enough?"

"Will you still be subjecting me to giggling and kissing and other indignities?"

"Only a little, Sherlock."

"It's most disturbing, Mrs. Hudson."

"I know, dear, but for the rent you pay you have to endure a few hardships," she said. "Persevere. Be brave."

He sighed gustily, and trod heavily back into the upstairs flat.

Mrs. Hudson was holding her ribs, by then, struggling with laughter. She raised one hand high—and Molly met it in a gleeful clap.

"Was that a high-five?" Sherlock shouted down.

"Yes, Sherlock, dear," Mrs. Hudson called back up.

"One. You get one. Anymore and we're renegotiating the rent."

"Of course, Sherlock... I'd been thinking of asking for an increase anyway."

He walked down the stairs with a steady pace, and came to stand in the kitchen door, looking in. Molly and Mrs. Hudson looked back at him, barely managing to resist more giggles. Seconds ticked by, and Molly was amazed and charmed. Looking at them, his stern, gloomy Eeyore face relaxed. One side of his mouth twitched—and he shook his head, grinned, and gently folded Mrs. Hudson into his arms, kissing her on top of the head—then pulled Molly in, too.

"Idiots," he said.

"I know, dear. You suffer terribly," Mrs. Hudson sympathized, chuckling. "I don't know how you bear it, I truly don't. Now, go, you two. It's going on teatime. You should grab something to eat on the way, then go see Mycroft. Send the poor dear my love, will you?"

"What, and set his recovery back a week?" Sherlock deadpanned.

She smacked him, lightly. "Wicked boy. Go on, go on. Get off with you. I've got to clean this place up: been years since I had this many people in and it's all at sixes and sevens. "

As they all moved to the front of the house, Nigel ascended from the basement apartment—frowsy, muddled, and clearly only just risen from sleep.

"'Sup?" he asked.

Sherlock, Molly and Mrs. Hudson all looked at him. Molly turned to Mrs. Hudson. "Bring him up to speed, yeah?"

The mischief on the woman's face was priceless. "Of course, Molly, love!" She twined an arm around Nigel's waist, and the last thing Molly heard as she and Sherlock left 221B was Mrs. Hudson's voice saying, "Oh, have I got stories for you!"

XXXXX

They ate out at Angelo's. It felt odd. Angelo circled, eyes watchful and a bit perplexed.

"Your bloke's not here?" he asked Sherlock, in what he appeared to think was a subtle whisper Molly wouldn't notice.

"I told you, Angelo, John's got his own place right now," Sherlock said. "He's getting married in the spring."

"Yeah. Right." Angelo studied Molly, then said confidingly, "You take care of him, now, right? He's a great man, but even great men can be unlucky in love. Sad thing, when couples break up."

Sherlock maintained his attention to the menu, refusing to look up. "I told you, John and I weren't a couple."

"Yeah," Angelo said, clearly convinced he was being tactful and letting Sherlock tell a little white lie. "That's right. You just take it easy, now. I'll bring a nice bottle of wine. Drown your sorrows."

"No sorrows, Angelo. He was my  _flatmate_."

"He's a brave man," Angelo said to Molly. "Carries on. Great man. Great, great man. Of course that Moriarty thing was a bit of a dust-up. And I have to say," he looked reprovingly at Sherlock, "your bloke stuck by you through thick and thin, even after everything you put him through." He frowned. "You should be ashamed, you know. He was faithful." And he glanced at Molly, now with suspicion.

"John's straight, Angelo," Sherlock said, "and he's getting married. To a woman."

Molly was nearly dying...and suspected that Sherlock's annoyance wasn't actually helping things. His irritation came across more as "sulking former lover" than "man trying to correct idiot regarding fundamental error."

"I'll have the pasta with gorgonzola sauce," she said. "Salad on the side."

Angelo paused, suddenly reminded of his role as host, rather than Agony Aunt. "Right you are. Starter?"

"Bruscetta," Sherlock growled. "Then the  _rissoto alla milanese_  for me. Salad. Carafe of Pinot Grigio for me, one of Zinfandel for my  _date._ " He was fuming.

She had to admit, he fumed very nicely, so long as it wasn't aimed at her. When she wasn't the target, it was actually amusing. Even adorable...

"You can't go against nature, mate," Angelo said, sceptically. "Man is what he is."

"And bring a candle," Sherlock snapped.

"I suppose you have to try," Angelo said, as though conceding that a child had to touch fire before he'd understand being burned. "Candle it is." He tucked his order pad in his apron pocket, moved a candle to their table, and disappeared.

Molly risked a snerk.

Sherlock frowned blackly at her. "This is all proving much more disruptive than I'd have thought. Is everyone in London going to see fit to comment on either my presumed break-up with John or my seemingly futile attempt at heterosexuality with you?"

She thought about it. He was, after all, still famous—or notorious. People would talk. "Probably?" She watched his face as he worked through that. It was an epic saga of different expressions: dour, sour, sullen, sulky, morose, petulant, peeved...

"Celibacy had certain advantages."

"True," she conceded. Then, "A lot more boring, though, I should think."

He scowled at her. "That's playing dirty. You know me too well."

"Who me?" She went wide-eyed and innocent.

"Molly Hooper, you're teasing me."

"Yes."

He blinked at the admission, and suddenly went quiet. "Oh."

"A problem?"

He blushed, then, and ducked his head. "Just not used to it. John and Lestrade tease me. Mrs. Hudson teases me." He didn't say he was unused to being teased by non-maternal women; wasn't used to flirting with women.

"Do you mind?"

He thought carefully about it. At last he said, "Not enough data. It's too early to speculate. You'll have to tease me some more before I can accurately evaluate my responses."

The vital thing to remember was that he meant it, too. It wasn't wit, it was honesty.

She smiled at him. "I think I can manage that. In the interest of precise estimates."

"Thank you. Your efforts will be appreciated."

Don't laugh, don't laugh, don't laugh, she told herself. Instead she focused on dinner, and on finding moments to gently, gently tease him. After all, she'd promised, hadn't she?

XXXXX

Mycroft seemed almost normal—or as normal as a man stuck in a hospital bed against his will can seem. He'd convinced someone to bring him a very elegant pair of dark charcoal-grey silk pyjamas. His hair was clean and combed. While there were still bruises and scabs and pock-marks on his skin, they were quickly fading—the nurses appeared to have taken good care, and ensured they'd heal well.

Even Molly could see, though, that there was still something fragile about him—not just health, but some damage to his confidence. If it was visible to her, it was apparently a screaming wail to Sherlock, with his greater knowledge of his brother and his observational abilities. She could feel Sherlock tense beside her, much like her cat Toby when she got out the nail clippers. If he'd not been working so hard to be a brave and valiant brother, she suspected that, like Toby, he'd have tried to dive for cover, too—or done the "offended cat" thing of yowling, whinging, hissing, scolding and stomping around with the psychic equivalent of his tail shivering in disapproval.

She wondered if he knew just how strongly he radiated his emotional reactions to things. She thought not. In his own mind he was calm and reserved and detached. Anyone who knew him, though, knew he was a minefield of responses, all on hair triggers, and all attached to live explosives of various sorts.

Whether he knew it or not, he was announcing to the world that he did not  _like_  having big brother battered and bewildered. Big brother wasn't supposed to be hurt. Sherlock was not amused—not at all.

"Well. Finally. At least you're sitting up," he said in full curmudgeon mode, glowering at Mycroft. "Lazy old thing. I thought you'd lie there forever."

"Not everyone's permanently hyperactive," Mycroft grumbled back. Molly had never known Mycroft well previously, and she struggled to read his unfamiliar body language—the quirks and kinks and little inflections that communicated so much. She thought she saw warmth and humor hiding behind a desperate attempt at control. He was much, much more the reserved, defended citadel Sherlock only thought himself to be, though: much tougher to read. "There are some of us who actually manage to accomplish things without pacing ruts in the floor."

Sherlock sniffed. "Sloth. Slug. Lie-abed. How long can I expect you to mope around here? I'm tired of filling in for you with the British Government. It's dull and I want to get back to my own experiments."

Molly made a note to herself that this was Sherlockese for "I'm worried silly about you and want you to get well soon."

"Good lord, don't tell me they're allowing you to muddle up my projects," Mycroft sighed, wearily. "I'll be a decade clearing up the disasters you'll sow in your wake." He shuddered, delicately. "What have they let you maul, anyway? Hopefully nothing too sensitive."

Another note: This was Mycroftese for "I have not one clue what the hell I left open, and I'm scared stupid, and would you please bring me up to date because this is getting on my last nerve."

"Middle-East," Sherlock drawled. "Nothing major, not that Uncle William and Beemish are convinced. They're ransacking your files and ripping through every contact they know about trying to bring your projects under their control. They seem to think that without you, they're all that stands between Mother England and Armageddon."

Translation: "Uncle William and your aide, Beemish, are mucking around in your business, but don't seem to have caught on to whatever you were doing yet. Unfortunately, neither have I. Please brief me, brother, as I'm buggered if I know what you're up to. How bloody serious is it, anyway?"

Mycroft wiped a hand over his face, and said, "God. That's unfortunate. I wish I could remember more. They could be doing anything..."

Which Molly was pretty sure meant, "OMG, I have no idea what's going on there—Armageddon seems only too likely," followed by a long string of  _really_  creative cursing. Mycroft struck her as someone who might not swear openly all that often, but who probably knew scads of really vicious cusses in at least seven languages...and who used those wicked words mentally a lot more often than he let on.

Judging by the look on Sherlock's face, his interpretation was pretty close to her own. He didn't look a his brother directly, but kept his face turned slightly away, eyes slipping side-wise for a corner-eye view. "No memory of anything in particular, then?" he asked, giving up evasion and going directly to the point.

Mycroft shrugged, forlornly. "There's always something under way out there," he said. "Unfortunately I have no memory of any specific actions I had gearing up."

"Any feints? Ruses? Ploys? Any known agents? Any feared activity on the part of enemies?"

"I don't  _remember_ ," Mycroft said, temper suddenly flaring—and with it, a clear flash of fear. "I've been trying to remember since I woke up. At first we thought it was just a few weeks of blanks—but there are whole months that aren't quite right. I can't put it all back together."

Molly thought she was lucky to be sitting in a chair near the foot of Mycroft's bed. If she'd been where Sherlock was, near the head, she'd have instinctively reached out to hold Mycroft's hand—and she was fairly sure Mycroft would have hated that with a passion hotter than the death of suns.

The two brothers were silent for a few moments, both brooding, both uneasy. Then Sherlock said, tentatively, "We've got your umbrella. There's a memory in the handle, and a passworded mobile transmitter-receiver. There's an explosive in there if we get it wrong. You have apparently been taking lessons from The Woman, brother-dear. Any idea what your password was?"

Mycroft shook his head.

"What about what's on the memory?"

"I recall having a memory installed in the umbrella...but in all honesty, it was largely a matter of amusement. So Maxwell-Smart, you see." Mycroft's mouth twitched in a sad caricature of a smile. "As I recall, I was planning on downloading the complete Monty Python collection, for the amusement of any enemy fool enough to steal my brolly, go through the process of gaining my password, and look there."

Molly had to fight back laughter, finding that a blinding revelation about Mycroft Holmes and his sense of the ridiculous. Sherlock, however, seemed to miss it entirely. "Would you have put your ring on the umbrella as a marker, if that was all that was on the drive?"

Mycroft looked up, eyes stricken. His left hand touched the ring finger of his right, stroking the empty space where a ring had once rested. "No. Is that where it went?"

"That's where it still is. You left it there. I think as a message to me."

Mycroft nodded. "Like as not." He looked haunted.

"Are you  _ever_  going to tell me the story of that ring?" Sherlock asked, suddenly forlorn and very much the little brother.

Mycroft's mouth twitched in something that definitely was not a smile, and he looked down at his hands. "No."

Molly ran that through her Mycroft interpreter, studying every element she could. What came back was a wordless sense of something deep, and intensely private...and beyond that, nothing. The nothing echoed, though, filled with energy and meaning. She knew that, having once heard and seen Mycroft not-discussing the ring, she would never fail to know that its presence or absence was always important, never casual or random—at least, it would always be important to Mycroft.

Both brothers stirred, restlessly.

"My contacts can't find anything that seems to pertain to this," Sherlock said, quietly.

"Contacts?"

"Her."

"Ah. Her. In Islamabad, still?"

"Where else?" Sherlock asked, sullenly.

"Ah." Mycroft looked at Sherlock, warily, then shot a speculative glance over at Molly. "You're in contact with her, though?"

"She's a good resource," Sherlock said, as though only a fool would miss his point. "And she's not mixed up with your people. She's  _my_ source. Any corruption on your side, she's likely to be free from."

"That may be the only form of corruption of which that can be said," Mycroft snipped. "The Woman's made a career of moral decay."

Molly didn't know how she heard the capital letters on "The Woman." She also didn't know why, as he said that, Mycroft's eyes fixed on her, puzzling something out.

"A highly successful career," Sherlock snapped back, "and one that brings her in contact with the more critical members of society. She's worked hard for us."

"No doubt for a stratospheric fee."

"High earth orbit, more like," Sherlock said, amused.

"You helped her negotiate?"

"It seemed sensible. If nothing else, it kept her aware of where her best interests lay."

"You're really quite wasted on private commissions, Sherlock. At the very least there are members of the diplomatic corps who'd appreciate your ability to drive for the greatest profit—when you set your mind to it."

"A compliment, Mycroft? I'm touched."

Mycroft shrugged. "I didn't suggest you set your mind to it often, now, did I?"

Sherlock snorted. "Of course, not. Why would I have expected more?"

"Why indeed?"

Molly frowned. "Stop it. The two of you aren't talking, anymore. You're wittering around trying to pretend you're not scared."

Both brothers looked at her, pale eyes lit with far too much perceptive alertness. Mycroft turned to Sherlock, then, and said, quietly. "You do have a taste for dangerous women, don't you, brother-mine? At least this one's workable. Do try not to waste the opportunity she offers."

Sherlock glared back. "I'd be more inclined to listen to your suggestions, brother, if you showed any level of practicality in your own choices."

"Solitude is eminently practical," Mycroft said, with an intensity that Molly found far more frightening than anything else he'd demonstrated during the visit. It implied a dedication firmer than bedrock—something more durable than tungsten steel.

Sherlock didn't reply. After a few moments he said, "I'll be back. I've got to check things with your aide."

"Aliena?" Mycroft asked, with wicked innocence.

"Assuming that's her  _nom du jour_."

"I believe you'll find her in the nurses' break room," Mycroft said. "They've got better coffee than the rest of the floor."

Sherlock grunted and stalked out, failing to invite Molly to go with him.

She looked after him, then warily back at Mycroft. He looked back, eyes pale and still. She licked her lips, suddenly uneasy. He was as intent as Sherlock ever was...and far less familiar to her. She felt watched, as a mouse is watched by a silent cat.

"I won't bite, my dear," he said, quietly.

"I... of course not. I mean, I didn't think..."

"On the contrary, you most definitely do think," Mycroft said, wryly. "Quite a bit more than Sherlock fully realizes, too, I suspect."

A cat could look at a king. Could a mouse look at a cat? Maybe not, if it were wise.

She watched him watching her.

"He's not reliable," he said, as though continuing a conversation well under way already, "but he's solid at the core. You've got a chance."

She nodded; then, driven by her own observations, said, "You're not as damaged as you think, you know. The memories may not all be there—but the mind is."

His eyes dilated, and then settled. "You've not much prior observation to draw from."

"Years of Sherlock," she said. "It's got to count for something. You're still one up on him. I can tell."

"Indeed? Interesting. Most people can't."

"How much of what you're saying is true? Or... No. How much truth are you leaving out?"

"I'm withholding very little from Sherlock," Mycroft said. His voice was grim. "Would that it were not so."

"But some?"

He bowed his head slightly. "Some. But Sherlock knows that, too. He's used to the exigencies of my position. There are always levels of truth held in reserve. Does he understand that you see things he doesn't?"

"Sometimes?"

"Do you understand that what you see won't be much comfort to you?"

"Well—it never has been before. I don't see why I'd expect it to start being a comfort now."

"Just so you're aware that seeing Sherlock's feelings when even he can't is going to hurt much of the time. Sherlock's feelings are seldom processed to conform to social expectation. His reactions tend to be rather—primal. Nature red in tooth and claw, and so on."

She shivered. "Are you saying I should just let go?"

"If you must, by all means do. But if you can? My dear, if you can, please stay. You are a better answer than I dared hope for." His voice was soft and gentle. "Call on me, if you must. If I can, I'll help. But—he's not an easy person. You'll cry, sometimes."

She felt herself grin—a crooked, hurty grin that came from somewhere dark and lonely. "I won't be the only one he's ever made cry, will I?"

"No. Not the only one," he admitted.

"I thought this was supposed to be the 'hurt him and I'll hunt you to the ends of the earth' speech."

"I can give that one, too, if you like," he said. "And if I do, it means quite a bit more than it usually does. But it seemed more honest to admit he's more likely to hurt you than the other way around...and give you a chance to run."

"Considering how much he's already hurt me, I might as well stay," she said. "It's only now it's beginning to give back anything but blood and tears, after all."

He sighed. "Again, he's not an easy man to love."

But you do love him, she thought. "He loves you, too," she said out loud.

He laughed, then. "And I'm no easier to love than he is. Difficult to the bone."

"Worth it, though, I think," she chuckled. "Look, I don't know where he and I are going, yet. I've got options I never did before. I'll try not to hurt him—but if this doesn't end up where any of us hopes—can you not hunt me to the ends of the earth? I promise, I won't hurt him on purpose, and I won't just be stupid-negligent."

He waved one hand in regal absolution. "The hunt shall be held in abeyance, my dear. After all, we've more serious prey to attend to at the moment."

"Your brother doesn't trust Beemish and his Uncle William."

"My brother is an intelligent man."

"Can't you tell him more about what's going on?"

He shook his head, wearily. "My dear, I've told most of what I know, all of what Sherlock can actually use, and more than is strictly safe." When she looked at him in doubt, he said, "The secret, you know, is to understand what role I play on the board at the moment. Now, Sherlock will tell you, with mischief, malice, and actual conviction, than I play the queen: the most powerful piece on the board. There are times he's correct. In this instance, though, I'm not the most powerful piece, but the most precious."

She frowned. "I don't know much about chess. What's the difference?"

"Ask Sherlock, Miss Hooper. He'll know."

And then he changed the subject, discussing the pleasures of estate teas for the next fifteen minutes, until Sherlock returned.

XXXXX

"Sherlock," she asked, during the cab ride to her flat, "what's the most precious piece on the chess board?"

He'd slipped close to her, putting an arm around her shoulders. "It depends. The queen, usually. But placement during play can determine a piece's power more precisely than anything."

"No. Not power—Mycroft was really particular about that. He said he wasn't the most powerful piece, but the most precious—not the queen, but something else. He said you'd know."

She could feel him come to full alert beside her, muscles suddenly alive in a way they hadn't been mere seconds before. "What?"

"Mycroft. We were talking about this whole mess. I was asking him if he couldn't tell you more. He said he'd told you most of what he knew, and all that was of any use. And more than was safe. And then he said that the secret was in understanding what role he played on the board."

"And?" His voice was electric.

"And then he said you usually thought of him as the queen—but that he isn't, this time. That he's something more precious."

She could feel him draw a breath, hold it, almost cling to it as he thought. When he let it go, it was as a sigh. "Oh. Oh, Mycroft." She wasn't sure if he was admiring—or frightened. His voice seemed to hold elements of both.

"Sherlock?"

"Mmm..."

"Sherlock, what's going on?"

He looked at her—but she didn't feel like he even saw her. "Sorry. It's just one more piece of the puzzle."

"So  _tell_ me," she grumbled, feeling entirely left out. "What was he talking about?"

"The queen's the most powerful piece on the board. She can move, engage, she can take an enemy from any angle. Used well she's close to unstoppable. But she's only a piece in play—a powerful piece, but otherwise entirely irrelevant. There's only one precious piece on all the board—and in many ways he's the weakest piece of all. The king. He can barely move. He can barely engage. He's got to be constantly guarded. His primary role is evasion, defense, and avoidance. But the entire game revolves around the king. The entire outcome of the game depends on taking the king—or failing to take him."

"And Mycroft's the king?"

He nodded, still barely focused on her. "Yes."

"And that means?"

"It means that he's not the queen. I've been trying to solve this as though he were, and he's not."

She sighed. "Someday you'll explain this, right? In English?"

He smiled, slightly, and grunted an affirmative, but his eyes were studying invisible worlds, and his mind was far away. When the cab pulled up at her apartment building, he didn't even remember to kiss her, instead shaking her hand absently, and murmuring, "I'll see you in the morgue tomorrow," as though none of the day's earlier events had even happened.

Fortunately, Molly knew him far too well to take offense. The game was afoot, and until he'd solved this latest switchback in the trail, all hope of romantic progress was probably derailed.

Which was, she had to admit, not a bad thing. At least she'd get a decent night's sleep. Still, she hoped this entire situation was solved soon... She'd really like to progress to a stage where her most intimate memories of Sherlock Holmes didn't involve a coat closet, after all.

 


	24. Yes, I am Late...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is an update-apology. I am indeed late. I have NOT abandoned this, nor do I expect to take a lot longer. I'm just... slow. Much slower than planned. I apologize, but do promise this is not an abandoned work. Just a bit longer in getting done than hoped. Soon-soon.
> 
> Tammany

Summary says it all.


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